BOOKS    BY   JAMES    B.    CONNOLLY 
PUBLISHED     BY     CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S     SONS 


Sonnie-Boy's  People.    Illustrated 

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SONNIE-BOY'S  PEOPLE 


'Look  here,  Sonnie-Boy.     Here's  a  man  says  your  papa  is  the 
greatest  man  ever  was  in  his  line." 


SONNIE-BOY'S  PEOPLE 


BY 

JAMES   B.   CONNOLLY 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK::::::::::::::::::::::  1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  September,  igi3 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SONNIE-BOY'S  PEOPLE i 

TIM  RILEY'S  TOUCH 51 

IN  THE  ANCHOR  WATCH 95 

CROSS  COURSES 123 

LEARY  OF  THE  "LIGONIER" 167 

How  THEY  GOT  THE  "HATTIE  RENNISH"   ....  199 

KILLORIN'S  CARIBBEAN  DAYS 231 

THE  BATTLE-CRUISE  OF  THE  "SVEND  FOYN"   .    .    .  261 

THE  LAST  PASSENGER 285 


437535 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Look  here,  Sonnie-Boy.     Here's  a  man  says  your  papa 

is  the  greatest  man  ever  was  in  his  line"     .  Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"And  of  course  your  brother  is  laying  great  plans  to 

assure  his  future?" 6 

"That  two-faced  chairman  of  yours — he  never  tipped 
me  off  you  could  fight  any  way  except  with  your 
hands" 90 

The  Orion  proved  to  us  that  she  was  faster  off  the  wind 

than  we  were  by  rounding  Cape  Cod  before  us       .156 

It  was  Drislane  she  had,  his  head  cuddled  on  her  knees 

till  the  tug  came  and  got  us 164 

"Just  then  one  came  right  under  her  forefoot  and  an- 
other under  her  counter.  And  I  looks  back  to  the 
gunboat" 226 

The  strangers  out  with  revolvers,  back  my  men  into 

the  fo'c's'le,  and  lock  them  in 268 

Twas  me  she  walked  home  with 276 


SONNIE-BOY'S  PEOPLE 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

THE  man  with  the  gold-headed  cane  had  been 
headed  for  the  cottage,  but  espying  the  boy 
at  the  water's  edge,  he  changed  his  course.  He 
crept  to  within  a  few  paces  of  the  lad  before  he 
hailed:  "Halloo,  little  boy!  I'll  bet  I  know  who 
your  papa  is." 

The  boy  looked  casually  around.  Seeing  that 
it  was  a  stranger,  he  faced  about  and  stood  re- 
spectfully erect. 

"Mr.  Welkie's  little  boy,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir.     But  I'm  'most  six." 

"Oh-h,  I  see — a  big  boy  now.  But  what  have 
you  got  there?" 

The  boy  held  up  the  toy  steamer  with  which 
he  had  been  playing. 

"Oh-h,  I  see  now.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  it?" 

The  boy  looked  sidewise  out  to  where  in  the  bay 
a  fleet  of  battle-ships  were  lying  to  anchor. 

"Load  it  with  sugar  and  pineapples,  and  ship 
'em  to  the  States,  are  you?" 

3 


Bonnie-Boy's  People 

"But  it's  a  gun-ship.  See — where  the  turrets 
V  the  fighting-tops  will  be  when  papa  makes 
them." 

"Oh !  and  so  you  want  to  be  a  great  merchant  ? " 

"I  want  to  be  a  fighter" — articulating  slowly 
and  distinctly — "on  a  big  gun-ship." 

"Well,  if  ever  you  do,  little  man,  I'll  bet  you'll 
be  a  game  one,  too.  Is  your  papa  home?" 

"No,  sir,  but  Aunt  Marie  is." 

"And  is  Aunt  Marie  busy,  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir,  but  she's  making  a  battle- 
flag  for  my  gun-ship." 

"That  so?  I  think  I  will  call  on  Aunt  Marie, 
then." 

Swinging  his  cane  and  advancing  leisurely,  the 
stranger  headed  for  the  screened  veranda  door. 

Marie  Welkie,  because  of  having  to  keep  an  eye 
on  her  nephew  from  the  veranda,  could  not  avoid 
noticing  the  stranger.  The  clothing,  the  jewelry, 
the  air  of  assurance,  had  disturbed  and  half  amused 
her;  but  the  kindly  tone  with  the  boy,  the  parting 
pat  of  his  head,  were  more  pleasing.  She  an- 
swered his  knock  herself. 

"Good  evening — Miss  Welkie?"  That  South- 
ern "good  evening"  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
likewise  pleased  her. 

"Miss  Welkie,  yes." 

"I'm  Mr.  Necker."  From  a  gold-mounted  case 
4 


Bonnie-Boy's  People 

he  drew  out  a  card.  "I'm  looking  for  your 
brother." 

"He  won't  be  home  for  some  time  yet.  But 
won't  you  step  in,  Mr.  Necker,  from  out  of  the 
sun?" 

"Thank  you.  It  is  warm,  isn't  it?  Warmer 
than  ordinary?" 

"No,  I  shouldn't  say  so.     It's  usually  hot  here." 

"Then  it  must  be  hot  here  when  it  is  hot.  It 
wasn't  so  bad  out  in  the  Gulf.  I  just  got  in — 
from  Key  West.  Not  many  passengers  come  here, 
MissWelkie?" 

"Only  somebody  especially  interested  in  the 
works — usually  from  Washington.  Do  you  mind 
if  I  go  ahead  with  this  ensign  for  my  nephew,  Mr. 
Necker?"  She  held  up  a  partly  finished  Ameri- 
can ensign.  Above  the  top  of  it  the  visitor  could 
see  part  of  the  very  white  forehead  and  a  front  of 
dark  straight  hair.  "I  promised  to  have  it  ready 
for  my  nephew  surely  by  morning,  and  after  my 
brother  gets  home  there  probably  won't  be  much 
spare  time.  But  were  you  the  only  passenger  for 
here,  Mr.  Necker?" 

"There  was  one  other.  He  got  off"  at  the  new 
fortification  landing.  Twenty-nine  or  thirty  per- 
haps he  was — a  well-made,  easy-moving  kind." 
His  voice  was  casual,  but  his  gaze  was  keen 
enough.  It  never  left  her  face.  "A  tall  man 

5 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

came  running  down  to  meet  him,"  he  resumed. 
"They  seemed  terribly  glad  to  see  each  other." 

"That  must  have  been  my  brother  to  meet — 
Mr.  Balfe,  was  it? — your  fellow-passenger." 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "Mr.  Balfe — yes, 
that  was  it.  The  captain — or  was  it  the  captain  ? 
— said  that  there  was  a  Mr.  Balfe  who  went  on 
special  missions  for  the  government,  but  whether 
this  was  the  Mr.  Balfe  or  not  he  could  not  say." 

She  sewed  serenely  on.  "I've  heard  that  that 
steamer  captain  is  developing  into  a  great  gossip. 
Our  Mr.  Balfe  is  my  brother's  dearest  friend  and 
godfather  to  my  brother's  boy — the  boy  you  were 
speaking  to  on  the  beach — and  if  he  ever  found 
himself  in  this  part  of  the  world  without  calling 
on  us,  I  don't  know  what  my  brother  would 
think." 

This  time  Miss  Welkie  looked  up,  and  Necker 
smiled  with  her.  Also  he  peered  smilingly  through 
the  veranda  vine.  "So  that  is  your  brother's  boy 
out  there?  Well,  well!  And  a  fine  boy,  too!  A 
beautifully  shaped  head.  Bright,  I'll  bet  ? " 

"Naturally" — with  a  tender  smile — "we  think 


so." 


"I'll  bet  he  is.      And  of  course  your  brother  is 
laying  great  plans  to  assure  his  future?" 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  not  well  acquainted  with 
my  brother,  Mr.  Necker." 

6 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"Not  personally,  Miss  Welkie,  but  surely  he 
won't  neglect  his  own  child's  future?" 

"I'm  afraid  that  would  not  be  his  way  of  look- 
ing at  it." 

"And  his  way  is  a  fine  way,  no  doubt,  Miss 
Welkie — if  a  man  had  only  himself  to  think  of. 
But  can,  or  should,  his  family — "  he  paused. 

"His  family?  Young  Greg  and  I  are  his  family, 
Mr.  Necker,  and  I'm  sure  we're  not  worrying 
about  the  future."  Her  head  bent  lower  to  her 
sewing,  but  not  too  low  for  Necker  to  see  the  little 
smile,  half  of  humor,  half  of  something  else,  hov- 
ering on  her  lips. 

"Because  you're  too  young — and  too  unselfish." 

This  time  her  head  came  up  and  the  smile  de- 
veloped into  a  soft  laugh.  "No,  no,  nothing  quite 
so  fine  as  that,  nor  quite  so  awfully  young.  At 
t  wenty-t  h  ree ' ' 

Necker  tried  to  meet  her  eyes;  but  the  eyes  were 
not  for  him,  nor  for  the  boy  on  the  beach  this  time, 
nor  for  the  brave  war-ships  at  anchor.  Her  eyes 
were  for  something  farther  away.  Necker,  twist- 
ing in  his  chair,  could  distinguish  through  the  haze 
the  fortification  walls  on  the  other  side  of  the  little 
bay. 

There  was  another  little  smile  hovering.  Necker 
waited  hopefully.  She,  catching  his  eye,  flushed 
and  returned  to  her  sewing.  "We're  all  very 

7 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

happy  here,"  she  added  after  a  moment,  and,  still 
flushing,  resumed  her  needle. 

Presently  he  pointed  his  cane  at  the  boy  on  the 
beach.  "A  great  deal  of  your  brother  in  him, 
isn't  there?" 

"Very  much.  Our  older  friends  back  home  say 
that  it  is  like  Greg — that  is,  my  brother — being 
born  all  over." 

"A  fine  boy,  yes,  Miss  Welkie,  and  ought  to  be 
a  great  man  some  day.  But  I'll  be  running  along 
now,  Miss  Welkie." 

"You  won't  wait  for  him?  He  will  be  glad  to 
see  you,  I  know." 

"Thank  you;  but  after  a  man's  been  out  there 
under  that  sun  all  day  is  no  time  for  a  friend  to 
bother  him.  And  I  am  a  friend  of  your  brother's, 
believe  me,  Miss  Welkie.  It  is  because  I  am  a 
friend  and  an  admirer  of  his  that  I'm  here." 

"But  you  will  return  later?" 

"I  will,  thank  you — after  he's  had  time  to  clean 
up  and  eat  and  smoke,  and  a  chat  with  his  friend, 
I'll  drop  in  for  a  little  talk,  and  in  that  little  talk, 
Miss  Welkie,  I  hope  you  won't  be  against  me,  for 
I  mean  it  for  his  best.  So  until  eight  o'clock 
to-night,  Miss  Welkie — adios."  Necker,  swishing 
his  gold-headed  cane,  strolled  leisurely  away. 

"I  wonder  what  he  wants  of  Greg,"  murmured 
Marie  Welkie.  And  until  his  pea-green  suit  was 

8 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

lost   to    sight   she    speculated    on    his    probable 
errand. 

By  and  by  her  eyes,  now  less  speculative,  de- 
tected the  smudge  against  the  concrete  walls.  She 
took  down  a  pair  of  glasses  from  the  wall.  It  was  the 
towboat  leaving  the  wharf.  The  glasses  took  the 
place  of  her  sewing,  and  they  were  still  to  her  eyes 
when  a  sharp  "Auntie ! "  came  to  her  ears.  ' ' 'Ten- 
tion,  auntie !  Colors ! "  warned  the  voice.  Lowering 
the  glasses,  Marie  came  obediently  to  attention. 

The  sun  was  cutting  the  edge  of  the  sea.  The 
last  level  light  lay  on  the  long,  slow,  swelling 
waters  like  a  rolling,  flaming  carpet,  and  in  that 
flaming  path  the  gray  war-ships  bobbed  to  an- 
chor; and  on  the  quarter-deck  of  every  ship  a  red- 
coated  band  was  drawn  up,  and  from  the  jack-staff 
of  every  ship  an  American  ensign  was  slowly 
dropping  down.  The  boy  stood  with  his  back  to 
her,  but  Marie  knew  how  his  heart  was  thumping, 
and  she  knew  the  light  that  would  be  on  his  face. 

"O  say!  can  you  see — "  came  the  swelling  notes 
over  the  gently  heaving  bay.  Marie  could  feel 
that  young  Greg  was  ready  to  burst;  but  she 
could  not  detect  a  move,  not  a  quiver,  out  of  him 
until  the  last  note  of  the  last  bugle  had  ceased  to 
re-echo.  Then  he  saluted  reverently,  executed  an 
about-face,  and  called  out  excitedly:  "Auntie, 
auntie,  there's  papa  now!  Look!" 

9 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

Marie  pretended  to  see  for  the  first  time  the 
towboat  which,  a  hundred  yards  or  so  down  the 
beach,  was  making  a  landing.  "Sure  enough, 
Greg!" 

"And  somebody  else!" 

"No;  is  there?" 

"Why,  don't  you  see — godfather,  auntie!  O 
papa!  Godfather!"  He  was  off. 

When  he  returned  he  was  clinging  on  the  one 
hand  to  a  tall,  brown,  lean-cheeked,  and  rather 
slender  man  of  thirty  four  or  five,  in  dusty  cor- 
duroy coat  and  trousers,  mud-caked  shoes  and  leg- 
gings, khaki  shirt,  and  a  hard-looking,  low-blocked 
Panama  hat;  and  on  the  other  hand  to  a  man  also 
sun-tanned,  but  less  tall  and  not  so  lean — a  mus- 
cular, active  man  who  may  have  lived  the  thirty 
years  which  Necker  ascribed  to  him,  but  who 
surely  did  not  look  it  now.  At  sight  of  Marie 
Welkie  stepping  down  from  the  screened  veranda 
he  bounded  like  sixteen  years  across  the  beach. 
"Marie  Welkie— at  last!" 

"Andie  Balfe!"  She  took  his  hands  within  hers 
and  drew  them  up  in  front  of  her  bosom.  The 
smile  which  Necker  had  so  wanted  to  see  again 
was  there  now,  and  now  not  to  vanish  in  a  mo- 
ment. Balfe  brushed  her  finger  tips  with  his  lips. 

"How  far  this  time,  Andie?" 

"From  half  the  world  around,  Marie." 
10 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"And  are  you  glad?" 

"And  I  would  come  it  twice  again  to  see  your 
dear  eyes  smile." 

"Could  eyes  be  made  so  dull  as  not  to  light  to 
your  poetic  touch,  Andie?"  And  then,  in  a  low 
voice,  "Wait  for  the  sunset."  She  stood  upon  her 
toes  for  her  brother's  kiss.  "Another  hard,  hot 
day,  Greg?" 

"No,  no,  a  fine  day,  Marie.  Pedro"-  -  he  mo- 
tioned to  the  negro  at  their  rear — "put  Mr. 
Balfe's  suit-case  in  the  corner  of  the  veranda 
there.  That'll  be  all  to-night,  except  to  see  that 
Mr.  Balfe's  trunks  come  up  from  the  towboat." 

He  paused  on  the  veranda  steps  to  get  a  view  of 
the  bay.  As  he  stood  there  in  silence,  the  lively 
notes  of  a  dozen  buglers  came  sharply  to  them. 
He  still  held  the  boy's  hand. 

"Mess  call,  papa?" 

"Getting  so  you  know  them  all,  aren't  you, 
Sonnie-Boy?  One  minute  from  now  ten  thousand 
husky  lads  out  there  will  be  doing  awful  things  to 
the  commissary  grub.  But  look  there!  Andie, 
did  any  of  your  kings  or  presidents  ever  offer  you 
sights  more  gorgeous  than  that  to  view  from  their 
palace  walls  ? " 

It  was  the  afterglow  of  the  sunset,  a  red-and- 
orange  glory  fading  into  the  blue-black  velvet  of  a 
Caribbean  twilight. 

II 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"It's  by  way  of  greeting  to  the  far  traveller. 
This  may  be  the  last  place  on  earth  here,  Andie, 
but  we  warrant  our  sunsets  to  be  the  best  on  the 
market.  But  let's  go  inside  and  make  ready  to 
eat.  What  do  you  say,  Sonnie-Boy?" 

"But,  papa,  you  said  that  when  godfather 
came  you  would  have  the  Little  Men  sing  you  a 
song  for  the  steam-engine  he  sent  me  from  Japan!" 

"That's  right,  I  did.     But  where  is  it?" 

"Right  here,  papa."  From  the  veranda  corner 
he  picked  up  a  toy  locomotive.  "Look!  Light- 
ning, I've  named  it." 

"A  fine  name  for  it,  too.  Well,  let  me  see. 
How  was  it?  Oh,  yes!  Lunch-time  to-day  it 
was,  and  your  papa  was  smoking  his  cigar  and 
looking  out  to  sea  all  by  himself.  It  was  very 
quiet,  with  all  the  donkey-engines  stopped  and  the 
men  eating  inside  the  walls.  On  the  bluff  beyond 
the  fort  I  was  sitting,  with  my  feet  hanging  over 
the  edge,  and  the  mango-tree  I've  told  you  so  often 
about  was  shading  me  from  the  sun.  The  wind 
was  blowing  just  a  wee  mite,  and  every  time  the 
wind  would  blow  and  the  treewould  wave,  a  mango 
would  drop  into  the  bay.  Plump!  it  would  go 
into  the  ocean  below,  and  every  time  a  mango 
dropped  down  a  Little  Man  in  a  green  coat  popped 
up." 

"All  wet,  papa?" 

12 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"Shiny  wet,  Sonnie-Boy,  and  blowing  their 
cheeks  out  like  so  many  blub-blubs." 

"What's  blub-blubs,  papa?" 

"A  blub-blub  is  a  fat  little  fish  who  takes  big 
long  gulps  deep  down  in  the  ocean  and  then  comes 
to  the  top  o'  the  water,  and,  when  he  sees  anybody 
watching  him,  puffs  out  his  cheeks  and  goes — 
blub-blub!  like  that/' 

"Like  men  sometimes,  papa?" 

"Just  like.  Well,  by  'n'  by  there  were  twelve 
o'  the  Little  Men  in  green  coats,  and  they  sat  under 
the  mango-tree  all  in  a  row  and  looked  at  me,  and 
the  one  at  the  head  o'  the  row  puts  up  one  finger, 
with  his  head  to  one  side  and  his  little  round  eye 
rolling  out  at  me,  and  he  says:  'Did  Sonnie-Boy's 
godfather  send  him  that  steam-engine  from  Japan 
yet,  what  you  told  us  about?  'Cause  if  he  did,  we 
have  a  fine  pome  about  it.' 

'Yes,  he  did  send  him  a  fine  steam-engine  from 
Japan,'  I  said,  'and  you  go  on  and  let  me  hear  your 
pome,  and  if  it's  a  good  pome  I'll  give  you  all  a  fine 
ripe  mango  to  eat.'  And  so  they  all  puffs  out  their 
fat  little  cheeks  and  they  begins: 

"'Godfather  bought  him  an  engine,  red  and  black, 
It  wabbles  slightly  and  the  wheels  don't  track "' 


But  it  don't,  papa,  'n'  the  wheels  do  track.3 
But  that's  what  they  said. 
13 


Sormie-Boy's  People 

"But  Sonnie-Boy  felt  prouder  than  England's  queen 
When  it  puffed  real  smoke  and  sure-enough  steam.'" 

"But  it's  a  king  in  England,  papa." 

"I  know,  but  that's  the  way  the  Little  Green 

Men  told  me.     Some  things  they  don't  know  yet, 

they're  so  little. 

"'He  named  it  Lightning  'cause  of  its  speed, 
And  the  'casional  spills  he  did  not  heed. 
All  big  roads  had  accidents,  people  knew  — 
There  was  danger  sure  when  the  whistle  blew/" 

"It's  true,  'bout  th'  accidents,  isn't  it,  papa?" 
"Nothing  truer.     Now,  let  me  see.     What  else? 
Oh,  yes: 

"'The  Lightning  Express  is  coming  back, 
Clear  the  way  there,  people,  off  the  track! 
Or  Sonnie-Boy's  engine,  red  and  black, 
Will  knock  you  down  and  hit  you  whack!' 


"How's  that?" 

"That's  great,  papa.  And  did  they  have  a  band 
with  them?" 

"No.  No  band,  but  one  little  six-toed  fellow 
—  I  'most  forgot  him  —  was  playing  on  a  hook-a- 
zoo.  That's  a  sausage-shaped  thing,  with  things 
like  rabbit's  ears  on  it.  The  music  comes  out 
the  ears." 

"And  what  kind  of  music,  papa?" 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"Oh,  like  a  jew's-harp  something,  only  be- 
ing bigger  'twas  louder.  Zoo-zoo,  zoo-zoo-zoo  it 
went." 

"I  like  those  Little  Green  Men,  papa,  but  where 
was  the  Little  Blue  Men  to-day,  did  they  say?" 

"Oh,  they'd  gone  to  a  wedding,  the  hook-a-zoo 
player  said." 

"They  know  everything,  don't  they,  papa?" 

"M-m-most  everything." 

"And  will  the  Little  Men  tell  me  things  when 
I'm  a  big  man,  papa?" 

"If  they  don't,  I  won't  let  'em  have  any  more 
mangoes." 

"An'  what  the  bugle  men  play  'n'  what  the 
flags  say  when  they  hoists  them  up  in  the  air  on 
the  big  gun-ships,  papa?" 

"If  you're  a  good  boy,  they  will.  And  now 
what  d'y'  say  if  we  go  in  and  you  tell  Diana  your 
papa  wants  some  hot  water  out  of  the  kettle.  And 
while  you're  doing  that  and  auntie  and  godfather 
are  talking  things  over  to  themselves,  I'll  be  laying 
out  my  razor  and  my  soap  'n'  things  all  ready  to 
shave.  There  you  are,  there's  the  boy!" 

It  was  after  dinner  on  Welkie's  veranda.  The 
two  friends  had  been  smoking  for  some  time  in 
silence.  Young  Greg  had  just  left  with  his  aunt 
to  go  to  bed.  Balfe  was  thinking  what  a  pity  it 

15 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

was  the  boy's  mother  had  not  lived  to  see  him  now. 
He  turned  in  his  chair.  "What  would  you  do 
without  him,  Greg?" 

Welkie  understood  what  his  friend  had  in  mind. 
"It  would  be  like  the  days  having  no  sunrise.  I'd 
be  groping  in  the  dark,  and  almost  no  reason  for 
me  to  keep  on  groping.  Splashed  in  concrete  and 
slaked  in  lime,  from  head  to  toe,  steaming  under 
that  eternal  sun,  five  hundred  spiggities  and  not 
half  enough  foremen  to  keep  'em  jumping,  I  find 
myself  saying  to  myself,  'What  in  God's  name  is 
the  use?'  and  then  I'll  see  a  picture  of  his  shining 
face  running  to  meet  me  on  the  beach,  and,  Andie, 
it's  like  the  trade-wind  setting  in  afresh.  The 
men  look  around  to  see  what  I'm  whistling  about. 
But" — Welkie  sniffed  and  stood  up — "get  it?" 

Balfe  caught  a  faint  breath,  the  faintest  tang 
borne  upon  the  wings  of  the  gentlest  of  breezes. 

Welkie  went  inside.  Presently  he  returned  with 
bottles  and  glasses.  "When  a  little  breeze  stirs, 
as  it  sometimes  does  of  a  hot  night  here,  and  there's 
beer  in  the  ice-box  and  the  ice  not  all  melted,  life's 
'most  worth  living.  Try  some,  Andie — from 
God's  country.  And  one  of  these  Porto  Ric' 
cigars.  Everybody'll  be  smoking  'em  soon,  and 
then  we  poor  chaps'll  have  to  be  paying  New 
York  prices  for  'em,  which  means  we'll  have  to 
make  a  new  discovery  somewhere." 

16 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"Wait,  Greg — I  almost  forgot."  Balfe  stepped 
to  his  suit-case,  took  out  a  box  of  cigars,  and 
handed  it  to  Welkie.  "From  Key  West.  Her- 
nando  Cabada.  When  I  told  him  I  was  going  to 
see  you,  he  sat  down  and  rolled  out  that  boxful, 
which  took  him  three  hours,  and  gave  them  to  me 
for  you.  'For  my  friend,  Mis-ter  Wel-keey-ay,' 
he  said." 

"Good  old  Hernando!"  Welkie  opened  the 
box.  Balfe  took  one,  Welkie  took  one;  they 
lit  up. 

"  Ah-h —  Welkie  woofed  a  great  gob  of  smoke 
toward  the  veranda  roof.  "Andie,  you  won't 
have  to  make  any  chemical  analysis  of  the  ashes 
of  these  cigars  to  prove  they're  good.  There  is  an 
artist — Hernando — and  more!  I  used  to  drop  in 
to  see  him  after  a  hot  day.  He  would  let  me  roll 
out  a  cigar  for  myself  in  one  of  his  precious  moulds, 
and  we'd  sit  and  talk  of  a  heap  of  things.  'Some 
day,  Hernando,'  I'd  say,  'along  will  come  some 
people  and  offer  you  such  a  price  for  your  name 
that  I  reckon  you  won't  be  able  to  resist.'  'No, 
no,  my  friend,'  he  would  say.  '  For  my  nam'  there 
shall  be  only  my  cigar.  I  shall  mak'  the  good, 
fine  cigar — until  I  shall  die.  And  for  the  sam' — 
one  pr-r-ice.'  How'd  you  come  to  run  into  him, 
Andie?" 

"I'd  heard  about  him  and  you.     I  suspected, 

17 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

too,  that  he  could  verify  a  few  things  about  the 
Construction  Company." 

"And  did  he?" 

"He  did.  And  so  they  have  been  after  you 
again?" 

Welkie  nodded. 

"And  offering  more  money  than  ever?" 

Welkie  nodded. 

They  smoked  on.  Again  Balfe  half  turned  in 
his  chair.  "I  haven't  seen  you,  Greg,  since  the 
President  sent  for  you  from  Washington  that  time. 
How  did  you  find  him?" 

"  Fine.  And  I  tell  you,  Andie,  it  heartened  me 
to  think  that  a  man  with  all  he's  got  to  tend  to 
would  stop  to  spend  an  hour  with  an  obscure  en- 
gineer." 

"  You're  not  too  obscure,  Greg.  What  did  he 
have  to  say  ? " 

"Oh-h — said  he  wanted  me  to  do  a  piece  of 
special  work,  and  he  wanted  me  because  several 
people,  in  whose  judgment  he  had  confidence, 
said  I  was  the  man  for  the  job.  You  were  one 
of  'em,  Andie,  he  told  me,  and  I'm  thanking  you 
for  it." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  you  ought  to  thank  me, 
Greg.  With  that  big  company  you  would  be 
wealthy  in  a  few  years,  but  the  trouble  is,  Greg, 
when  I'm  on  the  job  I'm  as  bad  as  you,  only  in  a 

18 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

different  and  more  selfish  way.  I  know  only  one 
road  then,  and  once  I  set  out  I'd  brush  aside  any- 
thing for  the  one  thing,  Greg." 

"Of  course,  when  it's  for  the  flag." 

"Would  you?" 

"Could  I  do  anything  else?" 

"The  boy,  too?" 

"Where  would  he  come  into  it,  Andie?" 

"You  don't  think  that  your  feeling  for  the  lad 
and  your  work  could  ever  clash?" 

"How  could  they  ever  clash,  Andie?" 

"I  don't  know,  Greg.  I  hope  not."  He  relit 
his  neglected  cigar.  "But  what  else  did  the 
President  have  to  say?" 

"He  said  it  was  a  bit  of  emergency  work  he 
wanted  me  for,  that  only  the  remnant  of  a  small 
appropriation  was  available  for  it,  and  that  if  I 
took  it  I  would  be  pitiably  paid;  but  that  he  wished 
me  to  do  it,  because  some  day,  and  that  not  too 
far  away,  it  might  have  to  stand  the  test  not  of 
friends,  but  of  enemies.  Also  he  said — let  me 
see " 

"That  for  foreign  policy's  sake  it  would  have 
to  be  done  quietly,  without  advertising,  as  a  bit 
of  departmental  work?" 

"That's  it." 

"And  that  you  would  get  no  great  reputation 
out  of  it,  that  your  very  report  would  remain 

19 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

a  supplementary  paper   buried   in  departmental 
files?" 

"That  was  it." 

"Did  it  strike  you  that  the  conditions  were 
hard,  Greg?" 

"Not  after  he  explained  things.  And  so  when 
the  Construction  people  said  to  me  later:  'You're 
crazy,  man!  Look  the  two  propositions  in  the 
eye!'  I  said:  'I've  looked  one  of 'em  at  least  in 
the  eye  and  I'm  passing  the  other  up — and  the 
other  is  yours." 

"Lord,  Greg!   whether  you're  the  best  or  the 
worst  concrete  man  in  the  world  is  a  small  mat- 
ter— you're  a  great  man.     And  if  some  day— 
Balfe  let  his  front  chair-legs  come  down  bang  and 
bounded  to  his  feet. 

"Greg" — it  was  Marie  who  had  returned — "I 
don't  know  how  I  ever  forgot,  but  I  never  thought 
till  a  moment  ago — there  was  a  Mr.  Necker  here 
to  see  you  this  evening." 

"Well,  you  don't  often  forget,  Marie.  Must  be 
the  sight  of  those  battle-ships.  Necker?  I  don't 
know  any  Necker.  You  know  him,  Andie?" 

"I  was  trying  to  guess  coming  over  on  the  boat. 
I  was  still  guessing  when  he  got  off.  I  could 
guess,  Greg,  who  he  is,  but  it  would  be  only  a 
guess." 

"He  didn't  leave  any  message,  Marie?" 
20 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"None,  except  to  say  that  he  would  call  again 
at  eight.  He  seemed  to  know  something  of  you 
and  to  be  friendly." 

"He  must  be  a  friendly  soul  to  come  to  this 
place  to  see  anybody.  Well,  when  he  comes  we'll 
know.  How'd  you  leave  Sonnie-Boy?" 

"He's  waiting  for  you  to  say  good  night." 

"I'll  go  up  to  him."     He  went  inside. 

Marie  picked  up  her  ensign.  Balfe  placed  a 
chair  for  her  at  the  little  work-table,  and  himself 
took  the  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"A  great  joy  for  you,  also — young  Greg,  Marie  ? " 

"If  you  could  hold  him  and  feel  his  little  heart 
against  yours  when  he's  saying  'Good  night, 
auntie,'  after  he's  said  his  prayers!  His  prayers 
and  the  'Star-Spangled  Banner'  are  his  great  set 
pieces." 

"And  between  you  and  Greg  it's  safe  to  say 
he's  got  both  letter-perfect." 

"And  spirit-perfect,  we're  hoping.  But  I  must 
get  on  with  this  ensign  for  him." 

"Pretty  good  size,  isn't  it,  for  a  toy  ship?" 

"But  it's  a  battle-flag.  He'll  have  none  but 
battle-flags.  There,  I'm  up  to  the  stars." 

"  You're  never  far  from  them.  Let  me  make  a 
stretching-frame  of  my  fingers  and  square  this 
end." 

"Do.  Not  quite  so  tight.  And  now — those 
new  States  come  in  so  fast! — how  many  now?" 

21 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"Forty-six." 

"M-m — four  eights  and  two  sevens?" 

"Four  eights  and  two  sevens." 

She  sewed  rapidly,  and  without  looking  up, 
until  she  had  completed  the  first  row.  "There — 
there's  one  of  the  eights.  Now  you  can  breathe 
again,  Andie." 

Balfe  sat  back.  "What  did  you  make  of  Mr. 
Necker,  Marie?" 

She,  too,  sat  back.  "I  wonder  what  I  did  make 
of  him.  He  was  very  curious  about  you." 

"That's  interesting." 

"Yes.  He  asked  questions  and  I  couldn't 
quite  fib  to  him,  and  yet  I  couldn't  see  why  he 
should  expect  me  to  tell  him  all  about  you.  And 
so" — she  paused  and  the  little  half-smile  was 
hovering  around  again. 

"And  so?" 

"And  so  I  did  not  attempt  to  check  his  imagi- 
nation." She  repeated  the  conversation  of  the 
afternoon.  "I  meant  to  speak  of  it  at  dinner, 
Andie,  to  you  and  Greg,  but  I  forgot." 

"Here's  a  far  traveller — "  He  paused.  She 
looked  up,  and  quickly  looked  down. 

" — who  gives  thanks  that  you  forgot,  Marie, 
in  that  first  glad  hour,  Mr.  Necker  and  his — well, 
his  possible  mission." 

"You  know  something  of  him,  then,  Andie?" 

"I'm  still  guessing.  But  I'm  wondering  now 
22 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

if  you  said  to  yourself  when  he  had  gone:  'After 
all,  what  will  Greg  get  out  of  this  government 
work?  Is  it  fair  to  himself  to  refuse  those  great 
offers  and  stick  down  here?  And  what  will  it 
mean  to  young  Greg?' 

Marie  Welkie  let  the  ensign  drop  onto  the 
table.  "My  very  thoughts  in  words,  Andie. 
And  while  we're  speaking  of  it,  will  Greg  ever  get 
the  recognition  due  him,  Andie?" 

"Surely — some  day." 

"Dear  me,  that  some  day!  After  he  is  dead,  I 
suppose.  You  men  are  the  idealists!  But  being 
only  a  woman,  Andie  Balfe,  I  don't  want  to  wait 
that  long  to  see  my  brother  rewarded." 

"And  being  only  a  man,  Marie  Welkie,  I  also 
want  to  see  my  friend  rewarded  before  he's  laid 
away." 

"But  will  he  ever?" 

"Who  could  answer  that?  But  I  stopped  off 
in  Washington  on  my  way,  Marie,  and  had  a 
long  talk  with  a  man  who  is  fine  enough  to  ap- 
preciate the  dreams  of  idealists  and  yet  sufficiently 
human  to  allow  for  most  human  weaknesses.  We 
discussed  Greg  and  his  work.  The  Construction 
people  were  mentioned.  He  asked  me  if  I  thought 
Greg  would  go  with  them.  'And  if  he  does,  Mr. 
President,  can  be  he  blamed?'  was  my  answer." 

"And  how  did  he  take  it?" 
23 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  through 
his  glasses  with  his  eyebrows  drawn  together,  in 
that  way  you'd  think  he  was  scowling  if  you  didn't 
know  him.  After  a  moment  he  said :  '  I  should  be 
sorry,  but  if  he  does,  no  professional  or  legal — no, 
nor  moral — obligations  can  hold  him.' ' 

"There!  Greg  does  not  even  get  credit  for " 

"Wait.  'But  will  he?'  he  continued.  I  said 
that  I  did  not  think  so.  'What  makes  you  think 
he  won't?'  'Because  I  know  him,  sir.  But,'  I 
went  on,  'don't  you  think,  Mr.  President,  that  by 
this  time  he  should  have  a  word  of  encourage- 
ment or  appreciation?'  And  that  led  to  quite  a 
talk." 

"About  Greg,  Andie?" 

"Greg  and  his  work,  Marie." 

She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  from 
between  her  palms  smiled  across  at  him.  "When 
you  use  that  tone,  Andie,  I  know  that  all  women 
should  stay  silent.  But  could — couldn't  a  little 
sister  to  the  man  in  the  case  be  given  just  a  little 
hint?" 

"To  the  little  sister —  Oh,  much !  To  her  I  can 
say  that  I  have  reason  to  think  that  something  is 
on  its  way  to  her  brother  which  will  be  very  pleas- 
ing to  her  and  to  him." 

"For  which,  my  lord,  thy  servant  thanks  thee." 

Eight  bells  echoed  from  the  fleet.  "Eight 
24 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

o'clock,  and  somebody  walking  the  beach!  It 
couldn't  be,  Andie — it  couldn't  be  that  Mr. 
Necker " 

Balfe  gravely  shook  his  head. 

"But,  Andie,"  she  whispered,  "there  was  the 
most  friendly  expression  in  his  eye!" 

"If  there's  a  living  man,  Marie" — he  bent  over 
also  to  whisper — "who  could  hold  speech  with  you 
for  ten  seconds  without  a  friendly  gleam — "  A 
knock  on  the  veranda  door  interrupted. 

It  was  Necker.  "How  do  you  do  again,  Miss 
Welkie?"  To  her  his  bow  was  appreciative, 
deferential.  To  Balfe  he  nodded  in  a  not  un- 
friendly fashion. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Necker.  Come 
in,  please.  I  will  call  my  brother."  She  pressed 
a  button  on  the  veranda  wall.  "That  will  bring 
him  right  down,  Mr.  Necker.  And  now  I'm  leav- 
ing you  with  Mr.  Balfe.  Diana,  our  cook's  little 
boy  has  a  fever " 

"Fever,  Marie?" 

"Oh,  don't  worry,  Andie,  if  you're  thinking  of 
danger.  It's  only  malaria.  And  it's  only  a  step 
or  two,  and  you  must  stay  with  Mr.  Necker." 

Balfe  held  the  door  open  for  her.  She  paused 
in  the  doorway.  "I'll  be  back  in  half  an  hour." 

"Half  an  hour!  Time  is  no  bounding  youth, 
Marie  Welkie." 

25 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"Come  forme,  then —  Oh,  when  you  please," 
she  whispered,  and  passed  swiftly  out. 

Necker  was  examining  the  shelf  of  books  above 
the  work-table.  "Keats?  Keats?  Oh-h,  poetry! 
Montaigne.  Montaigne?  Oh,  yes!"  He  took 
it  down.  "H-m,  in  French!"  and  put  it  back. 
One  after  the  other  he  read  the  titles.  "Eliza- 
bethan Verse.  E-u-r-i-p-i-d-e-s.  Dante.  H-m." 

Balfe  by  now  had  turned  from  the  screen  door. 
Necker  pointed  to  the  shelf.  "Not  a  book  for  a 
practical  man  in  the  whole  lot,  and" — he  held  up 
the  ensign — "  this !  Isn't  that  the  dreamer  through 
and  through?" 

"But  you  and  I,  not  being  dreamers,  consider 
how  thankful  we  should  be." 

Necker  stared  in  surprise,  and  then  he  smiled. 
"Now,  now,  I'm  meaning  no  harm  to  your  friend. 
I  guess  you  don't  know  what  I'm  after,  though 
I'll  bet  I  can  guess  what  you're  after." 

Balfe,  fairly  meeting  Necker's  eye,  had  to 
smile;  and  when  Necker  saw  Balfe  smile  he  winked. 
e'You  don't  s'pose  you  could  come  down  here  to 
this  God-forsaken  hole,  do  you,  without  some- 
body getting  curious?" 

"I  suppose  it  was  too  much  to  expect.  Have  a 
smoke?" 

"Thanks."     Necker's  tone  was  polite,  but  it 

26 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

was  a  most  negligent  glance  that  he  gave  the  box 
of  cigars.  There  was  no  name  on  the  box.  Balfe, 
with  unsmiling  mien,  pointed  out  two  small  let- 
ters on  the  cover.  "H.  C.,  Mr.  Necker." 

"H.C.?" 

"Hernando  Cabada,  Key  West." 

"0-ho!  How'd  you  ever  manage  to  get  hold 
of  a  box  of  them?" 

"They're  Welkie's." 

"How  can  he  afford  'em?  I  offered  old  Cabada 
a  dollar,  a  dollar  and  a  half,  and  finally  two  dol- 
lars apiece  for  a  thousand  of  'em,  coming  through 
Key  West  the  other  day — and  couldn't  get  'em. 
Nor  could  all  the  pull  I  had  in  the  place  get  'em 
for  me.  He  wasn't  going  to  make  any  more  that 
week,  he  said.  He's  a  queer  one.  He's  got  all 
those  Socialist  chaps  going  the  other  way.  For 
why  should  he  work  four,  five,  six  hours  a  day,  he 
said,  when  he  could  make  all  he  wanted  in  one 
or  two?  Sells  cigars  to  people  he  likes  for  fifteen 
dollars  a  hundred,  but  wouldn't  sell  to  me  at  any 
price.  I  had  to  take  my  hat  off  to  him — he  stuck. 
Now,  how  do  you  dope  a  chap  like  that?" 

"How  do  you?" 

"Don't  know  the  real  values  in  life.  Maybe 
a  bit  soft  up  top,  besides."  He  lit  up  and  drew 
several  deep  inhalations.  "M-m — this  is  a  smoke 
for  a  man!"  He  picked  up  the  box  gently.  "If 

27 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

I  thought  Welkie'd  take  it,  I'd  offer  more  than  a 
good  price  for  the  rest  of  that  box.  But" — sus- 
picion was  growing  in  his  eyes — "how  does  it 
happen — d'y'  s'pose  somebody's  been  here  ahead 
of  me  after  all?" 

"He's  coming  down-stairs  now — ask  him," 
smiled  Balfe. 

Welkie  stepped  into  the  veranda.  "I  was  in 
my  workroom  when  the  buzzer  told  me  you  had 
come  in,  Mr.  Necker,  but  on  the  way  down  I 
couldn't  help  looking  in  on  young  Greg.  I'm 
glad  to  see  you." 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Welkie.  And  to 
get  right  down  to  business,  I'm  the  new  president 
of  the  Gulf  Construction  Company,  and  I  want 
to  talk  a  few  things  over  with  you." 

"Surely." 

"Greg" — Balfe  had  opened  the  door — "how 
far  up  the  beach  to  your  cook's  shack?" 

"Oh,  for  Marie?    A  hundred  yards  that  side." 

"I'll  look  in  there.    Good  night,  Mr.  Necker." 

"Don't  hurry  away  on  my  account,  Mr.  Balfe. 
I'd  like  you,  or  any  friend  of  Mr.  Welkie  and  his 
family,  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say.  It's  a  straight 
open-and-shut  proposition  I've  got." 

"Then  we'll  try  to  be  back  to  hear  some  of  it. 
Good-by  for  a  while,  then."  The  door  closed  be- 
hind him. 

28 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

Let's  sit  down,  Mr.  Necker." 

"Thanks.  And  how  did  you  leave  that  boy  of 
yours?" 

"In  his  little  bed,  with  his  pillow  jammed  up 
close  to  his  window-screen,  singing  the  'Star- 
Spangled  Banner'  to  himself  and  looking  out  on 
the  lights  of  the  fleet.  He's  afraid  they'll  steam 
away  before  he's  seen  his  fill  of  them,  and  to- 
night he's  not  going  to  sleep  till  he  hears  taps,  he 
says." 

"It  must  be  a  great  thing  to  have  a  boy  like 
him,  and  to  plan  for  his  future  and  to  look  for- 
ward to  what  he'll  be  when  he's  grown  up." 

Welkie  looked  his  interrogation. 

"Surely,  Welkie.  A  boy  of  brains  he'll  be.  I 
don't  have  to  look  at  a  man  or  a  boy  twice. 
Brains  and  will  power.  You  could  make  a  great 
career  for  him,  Welkie — a  great  engineer,  say,  if 
he  was  started  right.  But,  of  course,  you'll  be 
in  a  position  by  and  by  to  see  that  he  gets  the 


start." 


"Started  right?  What  does  he  want  when  he 
has  health  and  brains  and  a  heart?" 

"All  fine,  but  he'll  need  more  than  that  these 
days." 

"Are  these  days  so  different?" 

"Different,  man!  Why,  the  older  a  country 
is,  the  more  civilized  it  is,  the  more  education 

29 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

means,  the  more  social  position  counts,  the  more 
money  counts." 

"How  much  more?" 

"A  heap  more.  Listen.  Your  father  on  twenty- 
five  hundred  a  year,  say,  could  put  his  children 
through  college,  couldn't  he?  On  twenty-five 
hundred  a  year  to-day  a  man  with  a  family  has 
to  battle  to  keep  out  of  the  tenement  districts. 
A  dozen  years  from  now,  if  you're  getting  no  more 
money  than  you're  getting  now,  you'll  be  wonder- 
ing if  you  won't  have  to  take  that  boy  out  of 
school  and  put  him  to  work.  Isn't  that  so?" 

Welkie  made  no  answer. 

"All  right.  But  before  I  go  any  farther,  let 
me  say  that  I  want  you,  Mr.  Welkie,  for  our  new 
job." 

"What's  wrong  with  the  man  you've  got?" 

"He  won't  do.  You're  the  one  man  we  want, 
and  if  there's  money  enough  in  our  strong  box, 
we're  going  to  get  you.  And  now  that  I've  got 
that  off,  let  me  show  you  where  it  is  for  your 
higher — I  say  your  higher,  not  alone  your  moneyed 
— interests  to  come  with  us,  Mr.  Welkie.  There's 
that  boy  of  yours — you'd  surely  like  to  see  him  a 
great  man?" 

"I  surely  wouldn't  dislike  it." 

"Good.  Then  give  him  a  chance.  Get  rid 
first  of  the  notion  that  a  poor  boy  has  as  good  a 

30 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

chance  as  another.  He  hasn't.  I  know  that  all 
our  old  school-books  told  us  different — along  with 
some  other  queer  things.  No  wonder.  Nine 
times  out  of  ten  they  were  got  up  by  men  born 
poor  and  intended  for  children  born  poor.  It  is 
a  fine  old  myth  in  this  country  that  only  the  poor 
boy  ever  gets  anywhere.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
poor  boys  outnumber  the  comfortably  born  boys 
ten  to  one,  yet  run  behind  in  actual  success.  Even 
history*!!  tell  you  that.  Alexander — son  of  a 
king.  Caesar?  Frederick  the  Great?  Oh,  loads 
of  'em!  You  don't  seem  to  think  much  of  that?" 

"Not  a  great  deal,"  smiled  Welkie.  "If  you're 
going  to  call  the  long  roll  of  history,  it  looks  to 
me  like  it's  a  mistake  to  name  only  three,  or  twenty- 
three,  or  thirty-three  men.  You  cast  your  eye 
along  that  little  book-shelf  there  and " 

"Oh,  I've  been  looking  them  over — Dante  and 
Michael  Angelo  and  Homer  and  Shakespeare  and 
that  knight-errant  Spaniard  and  the  rest  of  'em. 
But  I'm  not  talking  of  poets  and  philosophers  and 
the  like.  I'm  talking  of  the  men  who  bossed  the 
job  when  they  were  alive." 

"  But  how  about  those  who  bossed  it  after  they 
were  dead?" 

"But,  damn  it,  Welkie,  I'm  talking  of  men  of 
action." 

"Men  of  action  or — ditch-diggers?" 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"What!" 

"That's  what  I  call  most  of  'em,  Necker — 
ditch-diggers.  If  your  man  of  action  hasn't  him- 
self thought  out  what  he's  doing,  that's  what  he 
looks  like  to  me — a  ditch-digger,  or  at  best  a 
foreman  of  ditch-diggers.  And  a  ditch-digger,  a 
good  ditch-digger,  ought  to  be  respected — until 
he  thinks  he's  the  whole  works.  Those  kings  of 
yours  may  have  bossed  the  world,  Necker,  but, 
so  long's  we're  arguing  it,  who  bossed  them?" 

"You  mean  that  the  man  who  bosses  the  world 
for  thirty  or  forty  years  isn't  quite  a  man?" 

"Surely  he's  quite  a  man;  but  the  man  who 
bosses  men's  minds  a  thousand  years  after  he's 
dead — he's  the  real  one.  And  that  kind  of  a  man, 
so  far's  I  know  things,  Necker,  never  lived  too 
comfortably  on  earth.  He  can't.  I  tell  you, 
Necker,  you  can't  be  born  into  a  fat  life  without 
being  born  into  a  fat  soul,  too." 

"You're  not  stinting  yourself  in  the  expecta- 
tion of  running  things  after  you're  dead,  Wel- 
kie?" 

Welkie  noted  the  half-ironical  smile,  but  he 
answered  simply,  evenly:  "It's  not  in  me;  but 
I'd  live  even  a  sparer  life  than  I  do,  if  I  thought 
anybody  after  me  had  a  chance." 

"You're  a  hard  man  to  argue  with,  Welkie, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  argue  with  you — not  on 

32 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

things  dead  and  gone.  You're  too  well  posted 
for  me.  But  suppose  it  was  that  way  once,  is  it 
that  way  to-day?  I'll  bring  it  right  home  to  you. 
Here's  the  overpowering  figure  in  public  life, 
Roosevelt,  a  man  you  think  a  lot  of  probably — 
was  he  born  in  poverty?" 

"No,  but  I  notice  he  cut  away  from  his  com- 
fortable quarters  about  as  soon  as  his  upbringing  'd 
let  him." 

"Wait.  In  finance  who?  Morgan?  All  right. 
Son  of  a  millionaire  financier,  wasn't  he?" 

"But  if  you're  going  to  bring  in  money ': 

"I  know.  What  of  the  Carnegies  and  the 
Rockefellers  ?  you're  going  to  say.  There's  where 
you  think  you've  got  me,  but  you  haven't;  for 
I've  always  said  that  being  born  in  poverty  fits 
a  man  to  make  money  above  all  things,  because 
he's  brought  up  to  value  it  out  of  all  propor- 
tion to  everything  else.  But  where  are  they 
after  they  get  it?  America's  full  of  millionaires 
who  came  up  out  of  nothing,  but  who  had  to  work 
so  hard  getting  started  that  they'd  nothing  left  in 
'em  or  didn't  know  anything  but  money  when 
they  got  to  where  they  could  stop  to  look  around. 
If  they  had  any  genius  to  start  with,  it  was  dried 
out  of  'em  trying  to  get  going.  Hitch  any  two- 
mile  trotter  to  an  ice-wagon  and  where  will  he 
finish?  You  overweight  your  boy  going  off  and 

33 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

he  will  be  handicapped  out  of  the  race,  too.     But 
can  I  have  another  one  of  those  cigars?" 

"Help  yourself." 

"Thanks.  I  wish  I  had  your  pull  with  old 
Cabada.  Now,  Welkie,  I'm  only  trying  to  show 
you  where  you  ought  to  cast  aside  certain  out- 
worn traditions  and  face  actual  present-day 
truths.  Now  listen.  You  probably  don't  be- 
lieve Fm  a  villain,  Welkie,  and  you  know  I  repre- 
sent a  powerful  corporation — reputable  even  if 
powerful.  Yes.  Well,  this  work  of  ours  is  good, 
useful  work — don't  you  think  we  can  fairly  claim 
that?" 

"Beautiful  work — beautiful." 

"Good.  Then  wouldn't  you  like  to  see  that 
work  growing  under  your  hand — ten  thousand 
men  driving  night  and  day,  and  that  concrete 
structure  reaching  out,  as  you've  planned  it,  in 
long  white  stretches  to  the  sea?" 

"It's  certainly  a  fine  prospect." 

"Then  why  not  do  it  ?  What's  the  use,  Welkie ? 
You're  the  best  man  in  the  country  for  us  and 
we're  the  best  concern  for  you.  We  offer  you  the 
biggest  job  in  sight.  What  d'y'  say?  You've 
been  turning  us  down,  but  think  it  over  now." 

Welkie  shook  his  head. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because — but  they  are  coming  back." 
34 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

Necker  could  see  the  hands  of  Balfe  and  Miss 
Welkie  unclasping  in  the  half-darkness  as  they 
entered.  He  touched  Welkie  on  the  arm.  "Why 
not  tell  Miss  Welkie  and  Mr.  Balfe  what  it  is  I'm 
after?" 

"But  I'm  doing  work  here  that  I've  got  to 
finish,  and  they  know  that." 

"I  know  you  are,  but  consider  this.  What  does 
the  government  pay  you  here,  Welkie?  I  prob- 
ably know,  but  no  matter." 

"Two  hundred  a  month  and  this  house." 

"And  I'm  offering  you  two  thousand!  And — 
listen  to  this,  please,  Miss  Welkie.  In  place  of  a 
mosquito-infested  shoe-box  of  a  shack  in  a  God- 
forsaken hole,  we'll  give  you  and  your  brother  a 
fine  concrete  house  on  a  breezy  hill  in  God's  own 
country — a  real  home,  Miss  Welkie,  with  great 
halls  and  wide  verandas  and  sun-lighted  rooms 
through  which  the  sea  breezes  will  blow  at  night  so 
you  can  sleep  in  peace.  A  mansion,  Miss  Welkie, 
with  reception  and  music  rooms,  where  you  can 
receive  your  friends  in  the  style  a  lady  should,  or 
a  man  of  your  brother's  ability  should.  A  place 
to  be  proud  of,  Miss  Welkie — palm-studded,  clean- 
clipped  lawn  rolling  down  to  the  sea.  And  a  sea 
—I'll  bet  you  know  it,  Mr.  Balfe — a  blue-and- 
green  sea  rolling  down  over  to  coral  reefs  as  white 
as  dogs'  teeth,  a  shore-front  that  needs  only 

35 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

building  up  to  be  as  pretty  as  anything  in  your 
swell  Mediterranean  places.  What  d'y'  say, 
Welkie?  And  here's  the  contract  now,  all  ready 
for  you,  and  pay  begins  to-day." 

"It's  alluring,  it  surely  is.  But  I  must  finish 
here." 

"But  you'll  soon  be  done  here.  A  few  weeks 
more,  they  told  me  in  Washington.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  then?" 

"I  hadn't  thought." 

"Well,  why  not  think  of  it  now?  Consider 
your  boy,  what  it  will  mean  to  him  some  day. 
Why  not  ask  Miss  Welkie?" 

Welkie  turned  gravely  to  his  sister.  "What 
do  you  say  to  that  fine  house  with  the  grand  din- 
ing-room, and  the  music-room,  and  a  jasmine- 
twined  pergola  to  sit  out  under  of  a  night — and 
watch  the  moon  roll  up  from  the  shining  sea?  I 
know  the  house— it's  all  that  Mr.  Necker  says  it  is." 

"And  mahogany,  and  all  kinds  of  beautiful 
linen  for  the  table,  Miss  Welkie.  Imagine  that, 
with  cut  glass  and  silver  and  the  electric  candles 
gleaming  over  it  of  a  night." 

"I  would  dearly  love  to  preside  at  the  head  of 
that  table,  Mr.  Necker,  but  Mr.  Balfe  was  speak- 
ing of  something  that  perhaps  my  brother  should 
hear  about  first." 

"What's  that,  Andie?" 
36 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"Let  it  wait,  Greg." 

"Better  now.    What  is  it?" 

"You  may  not  like  it." 

"Maybe  not,  but  we  may  as  well  have  it  now, 
Andie." 

"I  was  to  tell  you  that  after  this  work  is  done 
there's  another  job  waiting  you  on  the  west  coast, 
just  as  important,  just  as  needful  of  your  super- 
vision, and  no  more  reward  to  it  than  this." 

"Whee-eu!"  whistled  Necker.  "The  steamer 
captain  had  him  right." 

"Then  I'm  afraid "— Welkie  turned  to  Necker 
— "it's  off  between  us." 

"  Don't  say  that  yet.  Wait  till  you  hear.  What 
are  you  working  for?  Leaving  the  money  end 
out  of  it,  which  I  know  you  don't  care  for  and 
never  will  care  for,  what  are  you  getting?  You 
want  recognition?  And  prestige?  Do  you  get 
them?  Not  a  bit.  Who  really  knows  of  this 
work?  A  few  engineers  who  keep  tabs  on  every- 
thing, yes.  Who  else?  Nobody.  The  govern- 
ment, for  good  reasons  of  their  own,  don't  want 
it  mentioned  in  the  press.  Why,  it's  hardly  men- 
tioned in  the  engineering  journals." 

"Even  so.  It  will  go  down  in  the  records  that 
I  did  it." 

"Will  it?  Look  here.  I've  been  waiting  for 
that."  From  his  inside  coat-pocket  Necker  drew 

37 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

out  several  typewritten  sheets.  "Mind  you,  I 
didn't  want  to  produce  this,  but  I'm  forced  to. 
My  first  interests  are  my  company's.  There  is  a 
copy  of  the  last  official  report  on  this  work.  Read 
what  that  says.  The  credit  is  given,  you  see,  to 
who  ?  To  you  ?  No,  no.  Not  a  mention  of  you 
except  as  a  civilian  engineer  who  assisted." 

"But  how  did  you  get  hold  of  this?"  Welkie 
held  the  papers,  but  without  showing  any  in- 
clination to  read  them. 

"Does  how  I  got  hold  of  it  matter?" 

"That's  right,  it  doesn't  matter." 

Welkie  offered  the  papers  to  Balfe. 

Balfe  waved  them  back.  "I  saw  the  original 
of  that  report  in  Washington.  What  Mr.  Necker 
says  is  so." 

"There!"  Necker  brought  his  fist  down  on 
the  table.  "The  man  of  all  others  to  bear  me 
out."  He  stepped  close  to  Balfe.  "I  couldn't 
place  you  for  a  while.  Thanks  for  that." 

"Don't  hurry  your  credit  slip,"  snapped  Balfe, 
with  his  eyes  on  Welkie. 

Welkie  silently  passed  the  papers  back  to 
Necker. 

"You  believe  me  now,  Mr.  Welkie?" 

"I  don't  know's  I  doubted  you,  Mr.  Necker. 
It  caught  me  just  a  mite  below  the  belt,  and  I  had 
to  spar  for  wind." 

38 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"  But  it  wasn't  I  who  hit  you  below  the  belt,  re- 
member. Neither  did  I  want  to  destroy  your  il- 
lusions, but  I  did  want  to  show  you  the  facts — 
the  truth,  not  the  glittering  romance,  of  life.  Now 
they're  offering  you  another  job.  Will  you,  or 
somebody  else,  get  the  credit  for  that?  You? 
No,  sir!  You'll  get  neither  money  nor  reputation 
out  of  it.  With  us  you'd  get  both." 

"Probably  that's  so."  Welkie  spoke  slowly. 
"  But  people  in  general  will  credit  me  with  loyalty 
at  least." 

"Will  they?  Even  where  they  know  of  your 
work,  will  they?  When  a  man  turns  down  an 
offer  like  ours,  people  in  general  will  give  him 
credit  for  little  besides  simple  innocence.  I'm 
telling  you  they'll  be  more  likely  to  think  you  are 
controlled  by  some  queer  primitive  instinct  which 
will  not  allow  you  to  properly  value  things.  I'll 
leave  it  to  your  friend.  What  do  you  say  to  that, 
Mr.  Balfe?" 

"I  think  you're  a  good  deal  right." 

"There!  Your  own  friend  agrees  with  me!" 
exclaimed  Necker. 

"You  don't  think  that,  Andie?"  Welkie,  puz- 
zled, stared  at  Balfe. 

"What  I  mean,  Greg,  and  what  Mr.  Necker 
very  well  understands  me  to  mean,  is  that  surely 
there  are  hordes  of  people  who  never  will  believe 

39 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

that  any  man  did  anything  without  a  selfish  mo- 


tive." 


"That  don't  seem  right,  Andie." 

"No,  it  doesn't,  but  it's  so,  Greg.  But" — he 
set  his  jaw  at  Necker — "what  if  they  do  think  so? 
Let  them.  Let  them  ride  hogback  through  the 
mud  if  they  will.  Oceans  of  other  people,  oceans, 
will  still  be  looking  up  to  men  like  Greg  Welkie 
here."  He  rested  his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoul- 
der. "You  stick  to  your  aeroplaning  in  the  high 
air,  Greg." 

"And  chance  a  fall?"  suggested  Necker. 

"And  chance  a  fall!"  snapped  Balfe.  "But 
there  are  no  falls  if  the  machine  is  built  right  and 
the  aviator  forgets  the  applause." 

Marie  Welkie's  hand  reached  out  and  pressed 
one  of  Balfe's.  He  held  it.  "It's  all  right— he's 
a  rock,"  he  whispered. 

"I  must  say,  Welkie" — Necker  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  floor  and  spoke  slowly — "that  the  govern- 
ment in  this  case  seems  to  be  represented  by  a 
man  of  picturesque  speech,  a  man  with  imagina- 
tion. I  can  only  handle  facts,  and  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  way.  I  ask  you  to  consider  this:  you 
have  a  boy,  and  there  is  Miss  Welkie,  a  lovely, 
cultured  woman,  and" — he  jerked  his  head  sud- 
denly up — "but  what's  the  use?  Here's  a  con- 
tract, needing  only  your  signature,  and  here's  a 

40 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

check,  needing  only  my  signature.  I  said  two 
thousand  a  month.  Suppose  we  make  it  three? 
Here's  pen  and  ink,  and  remember  your  boy  is 
looking  out  on  the  battle-ships  from  his  little  bed 
up-stairs." 

"You're  right,  Necker,  he  is  in  his  little  bed 
up-stairs  and  I've  got  to  think  of  him."  He 
turned  to  Balfe.  "The  President,  Andie,  just 
naturally  expects  me  to  tackle  this  new  job?" 

"I  think  he  does,  Greg." 

"Then  there's  only  one  answer  left,  Mr.  Necker. 
No." 

"Wait  again.  Welkie,  you've  a  God-given 
genius  for  concrete  work.  I  came  here  to  get  you 
and  I — sign  now  and  I'll  make  it  four  thousand." 

"No." 

"No?  Why,  look  here!  Here's  a  check.  See 
— I'm  signing  it  in  blank.  I'm  leaving  it  to  you 
to  fill  it  in  for  what  you  please.  For  what  you 
please  for  your  first  year  for  us,  and  the  contract 
to  run  five  years  at  the  same  rate.  Remember 
you've  been  trimmed  once  and  you're  likely  to  be 
trimmed  again." 

"Let  them  trim  me  and  keep  on  trimming  me! 
The  work  is  here  and  I  did  it.  They  know  it 
and  I  know  it.  If  nobody  but  myself  and  my 
God  know,  we  know.  And  no  official  or  unofficial 
crookedness  can  wipe  it  out." 

41 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"But  that  little  fellow  up-stairs  with  his  face 
against  the  screen?" 

"It's  that  little  fellow  I'm  thinking  of.  He'll 
never  have  to  explain  why  his  father  reneged  on  a 
job  he  was  trusted  to  do." 

"But  you  haven't  promised  anybody  in  writ- 
ing?" 

"No." 

"And,  as  I  make  it  out,  you  haven't  even  given 
your  word  ? " 

"No." 

"Then  what  right  has  anybody  to " 

"He  don't  need  to  have  any  right.  He  just 
thinks  I'm  the  kind  of  a  man  he  can  count  on, 
and,  in  a  show  down,  that's  the  kind  of  a  man  I 
reckon  I  want  him  or  any  other  man  to  think  I 


am." 


"Then  it  is  finally  no?" 

"No." 

"No?" 

"No.    And  let  that  be  the  end  of  the  noes." 

Necker  smoked  thoughtfully.  Then,  slowly 
gathering  up  his  papers,  he  said:  "I'm  licked, 
Welkie;  but  I  would  like  to  know  what  licked  me. 
It  might  save  me  from  making  the  same  mistake 
again." 

"Why,  I  don't  know's  I  know  what  you  mean; 
but  there  is  one  thing,  Necker:  if  it  ever  happens 

42 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

that  a  nation  which  don't  like  us  comes  steaming 
up  here  to  get  hold  of  this  base,  to  batter  it  to 
pieces,  say,  she  won't.  No.  And  why  ?  Because 
it's  no  haphazard  mixture  of  water  and  sand.  It's 
a  good  job,  and  if  I'm  no  more  than  a  lump  of 
clay  in  my  grave,  I  want  to  be  able  to  roll  over 
and  say" — a  flame  seemed  to  shoot  from  his  eyes 
— "  'You  sons  o'  guns,  you  can't  get  in,  because 
what  you've  come  to  take  was  built  right,  and 
'twas  me  built  it,  by  God!" 

Necker  studied  him.  "Well,  if  that  isn't  throw- 
ing a  halo  around  your  work,  I  don't  know  what  is. 
I've  met  that  before,  too.  But  you've  got  more 
than  that — what  is  it?" 

"If  I  have,  I  don't  know  it."     He  paused. 

"I  know,"  whispered  Marie  in  Balfe's  ear — 
her  eyes  turned  to  the  ensign  on  the  table. 

"But  if  there's  anything  else  there,  it  must've 
been  born  in  me,  and  so  that's  no  credit.  But  if 
there  is  anything  else  there,  I  want  my  boy  to 
have  it,  too." 

Necker  picked  up  his  hat  and  cane.  "He'll 
have  it,  never  fear,  Welkie,  and  the  more  surely 
because  he  won't  know  it  either.  I'm  off.  Do 
you  mind  if  I  take  another  of  Cabada's  cigars?" 

"Surely.    Help  yourself.     Fill  your  case." 

"Thanks."  He  lit  up.  "These  are  a  smoke. 
I  wish  he'd  let  me  have  some,  but  he's  like  you 

43 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

something — he's  only  to  be  got  at  from  the  in- 
side, and  I  guess  I'm  not  on  the  inside.  Good-by, 
Welkie.  I  hope  you  get  your  reward  some  day, 
though  I  doubt  it.  Good-by,  Mr.  Balfe.  You're 
the  first  of  your  kind  I  ever  met.  You  fooled  me, 
but  I'll  be  ready  for  you  next  time.  Good-by, 
Miss  Welkie.  I  forgot  to  say" — he  smiled  slyly 
— "there  was  a  sixty-horse-power  French  car  and 
a  fifty-foot  motor-launch  went  with  that  house. 
Good-by." 

The  pebbly  beach  crunched  under  Necker's  re- 
ceding feet.  "Dear  me,"  sighed  Marie,  "don't 
you  feel  half  sorry  for  him,  Andie?" 

"Just  about  half.  I'll  bet  he  plays  a  good  game 
of  poker.  But,  Greg — "  Balfe  drew  a  square 
white  envelope  from  an  inner  coat-pocket — "  I  was 
given  a  letter  the  other  day  to  give  you — in  case 
you  were  still  on  the  job  here." 

"On  the  job?  Where  else  could  I  be?"  He 
had  taken  the  envelope  and  was  about  to  rip  it 
carelessly  open,  when  his  eye  caught  the  embossed 
blue  lettering  on  the  corner: 

WHITE     HOUSE 

He  held  it  up  in  bewilderment.  "Not  from  the 
President,  Andie?" 

"Why  not?     Read  it." 

Slowly  Welkie  read  it.  He  took  it  over  to  the 
44 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

light  at  the  little  table  and  read  it  again.  He 
dropped  it  on  the  table  and  gazed  through  the 
screen  at  the  lights  of  the  fleet.  After  a  time  he 
said  in  a  low  tone:  "I  must  tell  Sonnie-Boy,"  and, 
turning,  went  inside  the  house. 

"Is  it  very  private,  Andie?"  whispered  Marie. 

"No,  no." 

"Then  I'm  going  to  read  it." 

She  read  it.  "Why,  Andie!"  she  gasped,  and, 
crowding  to  the  light,  she  also  read  it  again.  Her 
face  was  alight  when  she  looked  up  at  last.  "An- 
die, Andie,  isn't  it  splendid!  If  Mr.  Necker  could 
only  hear  this: 

"It  is  a  fine  thing  in  these  days  of  materialism 
that  a  man  of  your  genius  can  set  aside  the  al- 
lurements of  money  and  fame,  and  exile  yourself 
to  a  region  where  certain  hardship  and  probable 
disease  await  you;  and  this  only  that  your  coun- 
try may  be  served.'  And  the  rest  of  it!  O  Greg!" 

Welkie  was  back  with  his  boy  in  his  arms. 
He  took  the  letter  from  his  sister.  "Look  here, 
Sonnie-Boy,  what  do  you  think  ?  Here's  a  man 
says  your  papa  is  the  greatest  man  ever  was  in 
his  line.  Years  from  now  you'll  look  at  that  letter 
and  perhaps  you'll  be  proud  of  your  papa.  Your 
papa's  boasting  now,  Sonnie-Boy,  but  only  you 
and  your  auntie  and  godfather  can  hear  him, 
and  they'll  never  tell.  So  that's  all  right.  'Our 

45 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

papa  was  as  good  as  anybody  in  his  line' — a  great 
man  said  so.  What  do  you  say,  little  five-and- 
a-half,  you'll  be  a  good  man,  too,  in  your  line 
some  day,  won't  you?" 

"Can  I  be  a  fighter,  papa,  on  a  big  gun-ship?" 

"Well,  if  you're  bound  to  go  that  way,  I  don't 
see  who's  to  stop  you,  Sonnie-Boy.  But  if  you 
are,  whether  it's  a  sword  to  your  belt  or  a  lanyard 
to  your  neck,  here's  hoping  you'll  never  go  over 
the  side  of  your  ship  without" — he  picked  the 
ensign  up — "you  leave  your  colors  flying  over  her. 
And  now  we'll  go  back  to  bed,  Sonnie-Boy,  and 
this  time  we'll  go  to  sleep."  In  the  doorway  he 
stopped.  "What  do  you  reckon  Necker  would 
say  to  that  letter,  Andie?" 

Balfe  smiled.  "He'd  probably  say,  'Welkie, 
you  ought  to  publish  that  letter — capitalize  it,' 
and  think  you  were  four  kinds  of  a  fool  if  you 
didn't." 

"Well,  I  won't  publish  it  or  capitalize  it.  I'm 
going  to  frame  it  and  hang  it  at  the  foot  of  your 
bed,  Sonnie-Boy,  where  you'll  see  it  mornings 
when  you  wake.  Up  we  go,  son." 

Facing  each  other  across  the  little  work-table 
were  Marie  Welkie  and  Andie  Balfe.  She  had 
said:  "You  surely  have  been  my  brother's  friend, 
and,  if  you  were  not  already  so  successful,  I  could 
wish  a  great  reward  for  you." 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

He  laid  one  hand  of  his  gently  down  on  hers. 
"Wish  the  reward,  then,  Marie.  Do,  dear,  wish 
it,  for  I'm  not  successful.  I  played  hard  at  my 
game,  because  playing  it  made  me  forget  other 
things.  Almost  anybody  playing  a  game  long 
enough  becomes  half-expert  at  it.  But  successful? 
No,  no,  dear.  So  far  I  seem  to  have  travelled  only 
unending  roads  through  bleak  countries;  and  I'm 
dreading  to  go  back  to  them  alone." 

Beyond  the  veranda  screen  the  fireflies  were 
flashing;  farther  out,  the  little  green  and  red  side- 
lights of  the  steaming  launches,  like  other  colored 
fireflies,  were  sliding  by;  to  the  mastheads  of  the 
battle-ships  the  red  and  white  signal-lights  were 
winking  and  glowing.  The  night  was  alive  with 
colorful  things.  Closing  her  eyes,  Marie  could  hear 
the  lapping  of  little  waves  over  pebbles,  the  chal- 
lenging hail  of  a  sailor  on  watch,  the  music  of  a 
far  ship's  band.  She  bent  her  head  to  hear  it 
better — the  sweetly  faint  cadence  of  that  far- 
away band. 

"And  when  was  it  you  began  to  think  of  me, 
Andie?" 

"Since  those  first  days,  Marie,  when  your 
brother  and  I  bunked  together  in  the  old  S.  A.  M. 
construction  camp.  He  used  to  read  me  letters 
of  yours  from  home.  You  were  only  a  little  girl 
then,  and  it  was  years  before  I  saw  you;  but  I 

47 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

knew  what  you  looked  like  even  before  I  stole  your 
photograph " 

"Stole?" 

"I  did.  Greg  dropped  it  one  day.  I  found  it 
and  never  gave  it  back.  There  it  is — after  nine 
years." 

She  laughed  when  she  saw  it.  "Why,  I  can't 
make  out  to  see  what  I  looked  like  then,  Andie!" 

"I  know  what  you  looked  like.  I've  kissed 
the  face  away,  dear,  but  I  know.  In  nine  years, 
Marie,  I  never  shifted  from  one  coat  to  another 
without  shifting  your  photograph,  too.  If  any- 
thing had  happened  to  me,  they  would  have  found 
your  photograph  on  me,  with  your  address  on 
the  back.  'Then,'  I  used  to  say  to  myself,  'she'll 
know.  And  Greg  won't  mind  my  stealing  it.'  ' 
He  laid  it  face  up  between  them  on  the  table. 
"The  miles  you've  travelled  with  me,  dear  heart, 
and  never  knew!  Back  in  the  days  of  the  con- 
struction camp  they  used  to  find  sketches  of  a 
girl's  head  in  my  note-books,  a  beautiful  head 
badly  done — drawn  from  that  photograph.  But 
after  I  met  you " 

"And  after  you  met  me,  Andie?" 

"Then  I  needed  no  photograph,  though  look 
and  look  at  it  I  surely  did.  Steamers  in  western 
seas,  battle-ships  in  eastern  waters,  balustrades 
of  palaces — wherever  it  might  be  I  was  whirling 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

with  this  old  earth  around,  I've  had  your  face  to 
look  at.  And  when  I  couldn't  see  for  the  darkness 
— rolled  up  in  my  rubber  poncho,  in  no  more  ro- 
mantic a  place  than  the  muck  of  a  swamp,  I've 
looked  up  through  the  swaying  branches — or  in  the 
lee  of  a  windy  hill,  it  might  be,  with  no  more  to 
hinder  than  the  clear  air,  I've  looked  up  and 
marked  your  face  in  the  swirling  clouds :  your  nose, 
your  chin,  the  lips  so  shyly  smiling.  And  if 
through  the  clouds  a  pair  of  stars  would  break, 
I'd  mark  them  for  your  shining  eyes,  Marie. " 

"Poetry  again,  Andie!"  She  was  laughing,  but 
also  she  was  melting  under  his  eyes. 

"If  that's  poetry,  then  I'm  losing  respect  for  it. 
It's  a  weak  thing,  Marie,  and " 

"Sh-h — if  somebody  should  be  walking  on  the 
beach!" 

"Let  them,  sweetheart.  It's  a  fine  night  for  a 
walk.  What  harm  is  truth?" 

"But  I  don't  want  all  the  world  to  hear,  Andie. 
For  my  poor  heart  was  aching,  too,  Andie,  and 
now  it  wants  it  all  to  itself,  Andie  mine." 

It  was  taps  on  the  battle-fleet.  Over  the  mel- 
lowing, detaining  waters  of  the  bay  the  long- 
drawn  bugles  echoed.  Good  night,  good  ni-i-ght, 
g-o-o-d-n-i-g-h-t — they  said,  and  gently,  softly, 
whisperingly  died  away. 

49 


Sonnie-Boy's  People 

"He's  asleep  at  last."  Welkie  was  standing  in 
the  door.  "And  I  don't  know  but  we'd  all  better 
be  getting  to  sleep,  too.  For  to-morrow  morning, 
you  know,  we —  Wha-at!" 

His  friend  was  standing  before  him.  "Shunt 
care  for  the  morrow,  Greg.  Greater  things  than 
have  happened  are  happening  around  you.  The 
dream  of  years  has  come  to  pass.  And  we — we, 
Greg- 
He  looked  to  her,  and  tremulous,  vivid,  she  came, 
and  with  her  at  his  side  he  was  himself  again. 
"Marie  is  to  take  me  for  Sonnie-Boy's  uncle,  and, 
Greg,  we  want  your  blessing." 


TIM  RILEY'S  TOUCH 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"A    MAN    outside — says    his    name's    Riley," 
-^A.    announced   the  youth  who    guarded   the 
outer  door.     "A  big  husky!"  he  added  when  he 
saw  the  chairman  did  not  look  pleased. 

The  state  chairman  nodded  round  the  table. 
"This  is  that  new  man  the  senator's  been  talking 
about."  From  a  neat  pile  of  letters  the  chairman 
picked  out  one. 

"Here  is  what  he  sent  in  the  other  day.  From 
it  you  can  obtain  an  idea  of  the  calibre  of  the  man. 
Listen:  'As  you  ask  me  what  I  think  about  the 
crowd  up  here,  I'll  say  that  I  think  they've  had 
their  own  way  so  long  they've  got  to  where  they 
figure  they  don't  have  to  make  good.  They  seem 
to  think  that  to  be  in  politics  is  to  be  trying  to 
fool  everybody.  They  would  rather — the  most  of 
them — get  ten  votes  by  faking  than  a  hundred  by 
straightforward  work.  They  don't  seem  to  see 
that  nowadays  people  know  more  about  the  in- 
side of  things  than  they  used  to — that  they're 
doing  more  thinking  for  themselves  in  political 
matters.' 

53 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"And" — the  chairman  reinserted  the  letter  in 
the  neat  pile — "there's  more  drool  of  the  same  kind. 
I  don't  believe  he  ever  wrote  that  letter.  As  I 
understand  it,  he's  a  coal-heaving  sort  who  ought 
to  have  gone  into  the  prize-ring  and, not  politics; 
but,  whether  he  wrote  it  or  not,  we  will  have  to 
humor  him  because  of  the  senator,  who  is  of  course 
the  boss" — he  shot  a  glance  round  the  table — 
"  the  boss  now.  We'll  give  this  fellow  a  little  rope. 
A  couple  of  the  boys  up  where  he  comes  from 
tipped  me  off  about  him — and  we'll  let  the  senator 
see  him  for  what  he  is.  I've  seen  these  wonders 
before." 

"And  I  guess  you  don't  have  to  see  too  much 
of  a  man  to  be  able  to  size  him  up  either!"  This 
from  a  faithful  one  on  the  chairman's  right. 

The  chairman's  lips  kneaded  shut.  "Well,  in 
political  life — I  don't  say  this  in  a  boasting 
spirit,  you  understand,  gentlemen — if  a  man  in 
my  position  can't  size  a  man  up  fairly  well  at 
a  glance  he  might  as  well  get  out.  His  letter 
alone  would  tell  me  that  he  knows  it  all,  and  the 
word  I  get  from  the  county  chairman  up  his  way 
is  that  he  is  one  of  the  turbulent,  fighting  kind. 
However,  we'll  have  him  in  here  and  look  him  over. 
Show  him  in,  George." 

And  Riley  stepped  into  the  room.  From  the 
moment  of  his  entrance  not  a  soul  there  had  a 

54 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

doubt  of  the  chairman's  prejudgment;  but,  that 
his  less  acute  associates  might  judge  for  them- 
selves, the  chairman  allowed  the  man  by  his  own 
words  to  portray  himself,  which,  after  all,  was  the 
most  convincing  proof  of  all.  It  was  the  senior 
senator's  own  way  of  doing  it. 

The  new  man — an  agile,  powerful  figure — had 
bowed  with  a  conventional  show  of  pleasure  to 
each  in  turn  as  he  was  introduced;  but,  that  over 
with,  he  had  faced  squarely  toward  the  chairman, 
waiting.  And  the  chairman  began : 

"I  take  it,  Mr.  Riley,  that  you  are  not  the  kind 
of  man  who  would  stand  up  on  a  platform  and 
dodge  an  argument  with  the  most  excitable  of 
opponents?" 

"Dodge?    What  from?" 

"Not  from  the  hoots  and  the  jeers,  or  vegetables 
— or  even  the  half-bricks — eh?" 

Riley  waved  a  contemptuous  arm.  "I'd  rather 
see  half  bricks  coming  my  way  than  be  looking 
down  on  staring  empty  benches,  or  benches  emp- 
tying swiftly  when  a  man's  at  the  height  of  his 
speech."  Riley  paused  by  way  of  emphasis. 
"It  is  to  try  a  man's  soul — a  frosty  greeting; 
but,  a  warm-blooded  opposition — that's  only  to 
stir  a  man  up." 

The  state  chairman  waited  for  the  new  man  to 
leap  into  the  air,  knock  his  heels  together  and  yell: 

55 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"Hurroo!"  The  new  man  did  not  do  that.  He 
gazed  steadily  into  the  face  of  the  chairman. 
However,  every  specimen  could  not  be  expected 
to  meet  every  requirement.  No  doubt  of  it — 
here  was  the  made-to-order  creature  for  clever 
manipulation;  and  there  followed  then  the  sug- 
gestion to  visit  New  Ireland,  with  artful  words  to 
whet  a  fighting  man's  appetite  for  that  kind  of 
job. 

"And  now  for  one  last  little  touch  before  we 
send  the  poor  boob  to  his  political  extinction," 
whispered  the  chairman  to  his  next  at  hand. 
Aloud  he  said: 

"Yes,  sir — I  believe  in  frankness,  Mr.  Riley. 
And  I  will  tell  you  now  that  we  didn't  poll  many 
votes  in  New  Ireland  last  year.  I  don't  just  re- 
member how  many — I  have  mislaid  the  figures; 
but  I  wish  to  tell  you  frankly — frankly,  I  say — 
that  we  did  not  poll  many.  What  they  need 
there,  I  think,  is  a  determined  man  like  your- 
self to  pile  into  them  hammer  and  tongs.  That 
would  be  the  way,  I  think.  And  you  show  me, 
Mr.  Riley,  a  fair  Republican  increase  in  New  Ire- 
land— fifty  out  of  five  hundred,  say — and  you  can 
lay  out  your  own  itinerary  for  the  rest  of  the 
campaign.  Now  isn't  that  fair?" 

"Why,  yes;  that  seems  all  right."  As  he  said 
it,  however,  the  new  man,  his  eyes  ever  on  the 

56 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

chairman's,  had  a  feeling  that  it  was  not  all  right. 
And,  as  he  was  one  of  those  intuitive  ones  with 
whom  to  feel  was  almost  to  prove,  his  attitude 
changed  from  the  subjective  to  the  objective.  He 
had  not  liked  this  man  a  bit  from  the  first,  and  he 
was  liking  him  less  and  less;  that  finishing  "Now 
isn't  that  fair?"  was  surely  not  meant  for  his 
benefit. 

The  new  man  left  the  committee-rooms  with  a 
disturbed  soul,  and  on  his  way  to  the  elevator  he 
began  to  think  things  over.  Among  a  dozen  other 
things  which  flashed  through  his  kindling  brain  he 
recalled  the  glint  of  what  now  he  knew  was 
mockery  brightening  the  pale  eyes  of  the  chairman 
as  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

He  pressed  the  button  for  the  elevator;  but 
before  the  upcoming  car  reached  his  floor  he  de- 
cided not  to  descend.  He  would  have  it  out. 
He  almost  ran  back  to  the  committee-rooms  and, 
brushing  by  the  knowing  but  inefficient  outer 
guard,  made  for  the  room  where  the  leaders  were. 
Already  he  could  hear  the  laughter — yes,  and  the 
roaring  at  something  or  other;  and  as  he  placed 
his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  inner  door  he  heard : 
"  He's  come  here  from  the  other  end  of  the  State, 
with  a  reputation  for  burning  things  up.  Let 
him  try  to  burn  up  New  Ireland — and  then  go 
back  to  where  he  came  from.  Why,  let  his  kind 

57 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

come  butting  in  on  us  and  soon  we  would  all  be 
out  of  jobs."  The  chairman's  voice,  that  was. 

Tim  opened  the  door,  and  when  they  looked  up 
and  saw  him  it  was  as  if  they  had  all  been  clutched 
by  the  windpipes. 

"Go  to  the  devil — all  of  you!"  exploded  the 
new  man.  "Do  you  hear?  Every  mother's  son 
of  you!" 

From  out  the  silence  some  one  at  last  said: 
"You  mean,  Mr.  Riley,  you  are  going  to  desert 
the  party?" 

Tim  whirled  on  him. 

"No;  it  doesn't  mean  I'm  going  to  desert  the 
party.  Did  ever  you  know  a  man  who  was  any 
good  to  desert  any  party  or  anything,  good  or 
bad,  under  fire?" 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that."  The  chairman  had 
come  to  life.  "And  not  alone  because  we  would 
lose  you,  eloquent  though  you  are  reported  to  be. 
So  many  of  our  people  have  maintained  that  no 
Irishman " 

"Cut  that  Irishman  stuff!  My  chance  to  make 
a  living,  and  my  children's  chance  after  me,  I  owe 
to  this  country." 

"But,  Mr.  Riley,  you  are  of  Irish  blood." 

"Irish  blood?  You  may  be  sure  I  am,  and  so 
proud  of  it  that  when  I  speak  of  it  I  slop  over; 
but  I'm  an  American  citizen  too.  However,  if 

58 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

you  don't  mind,  we'll  leave  that  for  private  dis- 
cussion and  not  for  political  trading." 

The  chairman  recovered. 

"That's  all  very  well;  but  when  we  ask  your 
people  to  make  sacrifices  for  the  principles  of  our 
party- 

" Principles  of  the  party — slush!  Save  that 
for  your  platform  speeches.  You're  in  the  party 
because  there's  more  in  it  for  you.  I'm  in  it 
because  a  man  who  gave  me  a  square  meal  when 
I  was  starving  asked  me  to  join  it.  And,  once  in 
a  fight,  I  stick.  I  stick  because  I  don't  know  how 
to  do  anything  else — and  I'm  going  to  stick  now. 
And  I'm  going  out  now  to  New  Ireland  and  talk 
to  them." 

The  door  behind  Tim  opened  and  a  smooth, 
carefully  trained  voice  said:  "What's  this  about 
New  Ireland?" 

Tim  knew  the  voice,  even  before  he  turned  to 
greet  him.  It  was  the  tall  boss,  the  real  boss,  the 
senior  senator,  the  man  who  ordered  the  State 
committee  round  even  as  they  ordered  the  cam- 
paign speakers. 

"New  Ireland?"  the  senator  repeated.  "No, 
Mr.  Riley.  I  can  give  you  something  better  than 
that.  That  would  be  a  waste  of  time.  I'll  change 
that  right  now.  Here 

"Excuse  me,  sir;  but  I'm  going  to  New  Ire- 
59 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

land.  I  don't  know  what  kind  of  a  place  it  is  or 
what  kind  they  are  there,  except  what  the  name 
tells  me,  and  I  don't  care — I'm  going  there.  No 
gang  of  men  ever  picked  me  for  an  omadhaun  in 
the  morning  but  found  out  they  were  mistaken 
before  night.  And  I'll  say  further" — indignation 
in  Tim  always  disposed  him  to  classic  periods — 
"if  there  are  those  who  wave  the  green  flag  to 
tatters  at  every  Irish  meeting,  and  then  betray 
her  to  those  who  hate  her,  there  are  also  those 
who,  though  they  have  never  made  a  sacrifice  in 
their  lives  for  this  country,  would  prevent  all  but 
their  own  little  kind  from  breathing  the  free  air 
of  it.  As  for  me,  I've  come  to  this  city  to  do 
something;  and  I'll  stay  here  until  I've  done  it. 
A  while  ago  I  agreed  to  go  to  New  Ireland,  and 
to  New  Ireland  I'm  going.  Good  day!"  And 
the  windows  rattled  with  the  banging  of  the  door 
behind  him. 

"A  proper  bull-headed  Irishman,  that  fellow," 
observed  the  chairman  presently. 

"Or  is  it  he  has  convictions  and  is  not  afraid 
to  voice  them?"  The  senator  had  a  habit  of 
scratching  his  beard  with  his  finger-nails,  and  again 
of  drawing  his  chin  in  on  his  chest  and  looking  over 
his  gold-rimmed  pince-nez.  He  drew  in  his  chin 
now,  and  the  chairman  did  not  like  it.  He  never  did. 

"A  good  fighter,  I  should  say."  The  tall  boss 
60 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

scratched  his  beard  with  his  finger-nails.  "An 
encouraging  thing  to  meet  a  good  fighter  in  these 
fat  days;  but  let  us  see."  He  stepped  over  to 
where  a  blue-and-red-spotted  map  of  the  State 
was  hanging  and  laid  a  finger  on  a  blue  spot: 
"New  Ireland,  which  we  can  safely  call  the  en- 
emy's banner  town  for  its  size  in  the  United 
States.  If  Riley  can  leave  his  mark  on  that  place 
it  will  be  proof  to  me  that  he  can  make  breaches 
all  along  the  line." 

"More  likely,  I  think,  that  the  place  will  leave 
its  mark  on  him.  More  likely  they  will  crack  his 
skull,  I  think.  He  may  love  a  fight;  but  New  Ire- 
land is  full  of  men  who  love  fighting  too — and  they 
are  not  with  us." 

"That's  true — they  are  not."  The  boss  drew 
his  chin  in  to  his  neck  again.  "Too  bad  they  are 
not.  Suppose  we  wait,  however,  and  see  how 
Riley  makes  out.  His  reputation  is  that  of  a 
most  resourceful  man.  And  if  he  does  make  an 
impression  on  New  Ireland  he  can  have  anything 
I  can  give  him  in  this  State." 

II 

It  is  a  good  place — a  moving  train — for  serious 
meditation.  Tim  Riley  allowed  the  landscape  to 
fly  by,  the  while  he  considered  matters.  He  knew 

61 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

the  temper  of  the  kind  of  people  with  whom  he 
was  to  battle.  They  were  so  many  more  like  him- 
self. As  for  trying  to  bulldoze  or  browbeat  them, 
or — if  he  was  that  kind — to  bribe  a  single  one, 
though  they  were  the  hard-working,  unsophisti- 
cated kind — whisht! — like  the  wind  they'd  go  the 
other  way.  And  as  for  scaring  the  tough  ones, 
he  might  be  the  strongest  and  toughest  and  scrap- 
piest and  quickest  lad  on  his  feet  that  ever  was, 
but  out  there  in  that  quarrying  town  would  be  a 
dozen  or  twenty  or  fifty  just  as  strong  and  as 
quick  and  as  scrappy  as  himself.  And  that  kind — 
which  was  his  kind — you  might  set  them  up  in  a 
row  and  knock  them  down  one  after  another,  and 
just  as  fast  as  one  went  down  another  would  come 
bouncing  up  for  the  honor  of  the  last  word. 

New  Ireland!  Tim  viewed  a  town  of  two  or 
three  hundred  small,  square-planned  wooden 
houses,  with  one  green-painted  house  larger  than 
most,  labelled  Kearney's  Hotel;  another,  larger 
than  that  again,  with  a  square  cupola,  which  he 
knew  would  be  the  town  hall;  and  yet  one  rhore, 
largest  of  all,  white-painted,  with  a  surmounting 
gold  cross,  which,  of  course,  could  only  be  the 
chapel.  A  mile  or  so  beyond  the  town,  on  the 
scarred  hillsides,  stuck  up  the  derricks  of  the 
quarries,  which  were  the  town's  reason  for  being. 
Beyond  the  quarries  were  foot-hills,  which  gradu- 

62 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

ally  grew  up  into  mountains.  It  was  autumn,  and 
in  that  high  land  the  few  trees  were  already  bare; 
before  the  high  wind  the  bare  branches  swayed. 

It  was  not  the  most  encouraging  day  of  the 
year.  Tim,  with  a  warm  fire  and  a  hot  meal  in 
view,  hurried  on  to  the  little  hotel.  Peter  Kear- 
ney was  the  landlord,  a  companionable  soul,  who 
did  not  see  the  need  of  a  register,  and  who,  after  a 
time,  produced  a  lunch;  and  who,  further,  while 
Tim  ate,  smoked  and  gossiped  of  things  a  travel- 
ling man  would  naturally  be  interested  in. 

"And  what  kind  have  you  here  in  New  Ire- 
land? Easy  to  get  along  with?"  asked  Tim,  after 
the  discovery  of  the  quarries,  the  settling  of  the 
town,  and  the  last  explosion  had  been  intelligently 
discussed. 

"To  get  along  with?  The  finest,  easiest  ever 
— of  course  if  a  man  don't  cross  them." 

"I  wonder  do  you  think  I'll  cross  them?" 

"And  what  would  your  business  be  that  you'd 
be  crossing  'em?"  the  landlord  asked. 

"I'm  the  Republican  campaign  speaker  that's 
selected  to  address  them  to-night." 

"Oh-h!  Well,  d'y'know,  when  I  didn't  see  a 
sample  case  with  you  I  had  my  suspicions;  but 
when  you  said — or  did  you  say  your  name  was 
Riley?" 

"I  did.  And  it  is.  R-i-1-e-y — Riley,  Timothy 
63 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

J.     And  there's  any  number  of  Republicans  with 
names  as  good." 

"I  dare  say,  but  not  in  New  Ireland — nor  likely 
to  be  while  so  many  of  your  party  put  us  down  for 
a  tribe  of  savages." 

"Have  patience,  Mr.  Kearney.  There's  a  new 
order  of  things  under  way.  Have  patience.  And 
tell  me  now  how  many  Republicans  should  you 
estimate  there  are  in  New  Ireland?" 

"Estimate?  Sure,  and  that's  a  large  word  for 
them.  There's  Grimmer,  the  cashier  and  chief 
clerk  o'  the  savin's-bank.  There's  Handy,  who 
keeps  the  real-estate  office.  And  did  ever  ye 
notice,  Mr.  Riley,  how,  when  a  man  has  a  soft- 
payin',  easy-workin'  job,  'tis  ten  to  one  he's  a 
Republican?" 

"I've  spoken  of  it  so  often  myself,  Mr.  Kearney, 
merely  by  way  of  humorous  observation,  that  my 
party  loyalty  has  been  doubted.  If  you  would 
never  have  your  loyalty  suspected,  Mr.  Kearney, 
you  must  never  let  on  that  you  possess  intelli- 
gence; but  have  patience  and  we'll  have  that 
changed  some  day — maybe.  So  those  two  are  the 
leaders,  are  they?" 

"Leaders,  man!    That's  all  of  'em." 

"Two?  Two  out  of  nigh  five  hundred!  Well, 
glory  be,  what  kind  are  those  two  ?  The  fighting 
kind?" 

64 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"Har-rdly  the  fightin'  kind,  Mr.  Riley.  They 
couldn't  well  be  that  in  New  Ireland,  bein'  Re- 
publican, and  remain  whole.  Har-rdly!  No,  not 
if  they  were  John  L.  Sullivans,  the  pair  of  'em. 
Among  five  hundred  quarrymen,  d'y'see,  Mr. 
Riley,  and  they  mostly  young  men,  there's  al- 
ways plenty  of  what  a  man  might  call  loose 
energy  lyin'  round — specially  after  hours  and  Sun- 
days and  holidays;  surely  too  much  for  any  two, 
or  two  dozen,  disputatious  individuals  to  contend 
against.  And  yet,  as  I  said,  the  easiest,  quiet- 
est people  living  here " 

"Yes,  yes;  I'll  bet  a  leprechaun's  leap  against 
a  banshee's  wail  I  know  what  peaceable  kind  they 
are.  And  I  think  I  know  now  why  I  was — 
No  matter  about  that  though.  Could  you,  Mr. 
Kearney,  get  somebody  to  pass  the  word  to  the 
quarries  that  the  Republican  speaker  is  here  ac- 
cording to  announcement,  and  that  his  name  is 
Riley?" 

"I'll  send  me  boy.  Dinnie!"  called  the  land- 
lord. No  answer.  "Dinnie!"  No  answer.  The 
landlord  opened  his  lungs  and  roared:  "Dinnie!!" 
Then  he  looked  out  of  the  dining-room  window. 
"H-m!  I  thought  as  much.  Look  at  him  peltin' 
it  on  his  bi-sigh-cle  for  the  quarries!  He  heard 
you  say  Republican  and  'twas  enough.  No  fear 
now — not  a  soul  in  New  Ireland  but  will  know  it 

65 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

before  dark.     And — but  excuse  me  one  minute, 
Mr.  Riley." 

The  landlord  stood  up  to  greet  a  forlorn-look- 
ing old  woman,  who,  with  a  man's  overcoat 
wrapped  round  her,  had  appeared  at  the  dining- 
room  door. 

"How  are  you  to-day,  Mrs.  Nolan?  About  as 
usual?  Well,  don't  be  worryin'.  Yes,  you'll  find 
Delia  in  the  kitchen.  Go  in." 

Tim  nodded  after  the  old  woman  as  she  went  in. 

"And  who  is  she,  Mr.  Kearney?" 

"A  poor  old  creature  who  comes  here  once  or 
twice  in  the  week  to  have  a  cup  o'  tea  and  maybe 
a  little  to  go  with  it,  with  the  cook.  A  poor  old 
soul  dependin'  on  charity,  and  yet  she  won't  take 
it  from  every  one." 

"Poor  woman!  Will  you  give  her  that? — not 
now,  but  when  she  goes  out,  Mr.  Kearney."  He 
slipped  a  silver  dollar  into  the  landlord's  hand. 
"No  need  to  tell  her  where  it  came  from.  I'll 
be  going  along  now,  I  think,  to  have  a  look  at  the 
town.  I'll  be  back  for  supper." 

"Good  luck  to  you!" 

Tim  had  not  left  the  hotel  a  hundred  yards 
behind  him  when  he  met  a  Catholic  priest. 

"Good  afternoon,  Father,"  said  Tim,  and 
raised  his  hat. 

"Good   afternoon,   sir.     And  is  it" — the  cane 
66 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

was  shifted  from  the  right  hand  to  the  left,  and 
the  hand  thus  freed  extended  to  Tim — "Mr. 
Riley— isn't  it?" 

"It  is;   but  how  did  you  know,  Father?" 
"Oh,    if   Peter    Kearney's    long-legged    Dinnie 
hasn't  told  half  the  quarries  before  this  of  your 
name  and  business  'twill  be  because  he's  burst  a 
tire  or  broke  his  neck  rolling  down  the  steep  hills. 
And  so  you're  to  speak  to  us  to-night?" 
"God  willing,  I  am." 
"And  you're  not  discouraged?" 
"And  why  should  I  be  discouraged?" 
"Why?    You    must    be    a    stranger    to    these 
parts." 
"lam." 

"And  no  one  told  you  of  what  happened  to  the 
last  man  your  party  sent  here?" 

"They  did  not.     And  what  happened?" 
"He  was  rode  out  of  town  on  a  rail." 
"Well,  well,  Father.      And  what  did  he  do,  the 
poor  man?" 

"Oh,  he  only  hinted  at  first  that  we  were  a  lot 
of  ignorant  foreigners  who  were  Democrats  be- 
cause we  didn't  know  any  better;  but  he  warmed 
up  as  he  went  along.  I  don't  know  wherever  they 
got  him  from.  In  the  middle  of  it  Buck  Malone 
gave  them  what  they  call  his  high  sign — his 
right  forefinger  raised  so — and  every  man  in  the 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

hall  got  up  and  walked  out.  A  few  of  them  came 
back  later  and  took  him  off.  They  didn't  hurt 
him — no  bones  broken  or  anything  like  that;  but 
they  do  say  he  never  waited  for  the  train  when 
they  turned  him  loose,  but  legged  the  thirty  miles 
back  to  the  city  without  a  single  stop!" 

"He  did?    Well,  it's  fine  exercise,  Father — run- 
ning; though  thirty  miles  in  one  bite,  to  be  sure, 
is  a  bit  too  much  for  good   digestion,  I'd  say. 
This  Buck  Malone — he's  the  boss  here,  Father?" 
"He  is.    And  a  famous  one  for  surprising  folks." 
"Thank  you  for  the  information,  Father." 
"It's   no   information.   The   very   babies   here 
know  of  the  last  man  here.    If  you  see  the  children 
in  the  street  smiling  slylike  when  you  pass,  that 
will  be  why." 

Tim  pulled  his  lower  lip  with  thumb  and  fore- 
finger. 

"And  yet  they'd  laugh  all  the  louder  if  I  was  to 
go  away  without  speaking,  Father.  What  kind  is 
Buck  Malone  to  look  at  and  where  does  he  hang 
out?" 

The  priest  poked  the  end  of  his  cane  at  Tim's 
chest. 

"Is  it  fighting  you'd  be  at,  Mr.  Riley?" 
"It  is  not.     I'm  not  for  fighting — unless,  of 
course,  I  have  to.    Isn't  it  only  natural  to  want  to 
know  what  kind  your  opponent  is?" 

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Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"Sojt  is — so  it  is.  Well,  then,  about  this  time 
o'  day  you'll  find  him  in  that  cigar-store  with  the 
sign  out — below  there.  He's  a  contractor  him- 
self, who  furnishes  labor  for  the  quarries.  A  man 
about  your  height  and  breadth  he'll  be,  but  a 
trifle  fuller  in  the  waist.  A  stout,  strong  man,  and 
not  many  able  to  look  him  down.  An  eye  in  his 
head,  has  Buck!  I  wouldn't  want  to  see  the  pair 
of  ye  at  it." 

"Thank  you,  Father.  And  look — d'y'see  that 
old  woman  coming  out  of  the  hotel  ?  What's  her 
story,  Father?" 

"The  widow  Nolan.  A  sad  history,  Mr.  Riley, 
if  you  could  get  it  out  of  her;  but  it's  few  she'll 
talk  to." 

"Poor  woman!  Would  you  give  her  this — a 
couple  of  dollars — Father,  after  I'm  gone?" 

"I  will.  And  it's  good  of  you.  And  you're 
bound  to  speak  to-night?" 

"I'll  speak.    And  Fd  like  you  to  come,  Father." 

"Not  I,  Mr.  Riley.  Priests  are  better  out  of 
politics.  Good  day  and  God  speed  you!" 

Tim  strolled  toward  the  cigar-store;  and  draw- 
ing near  he  picked  out,  standing  near  the  glass 
case,  a  tall,  powerfully  built  man,  with  intelli- 
gently heavy  features  and  the  unwavering  eyes  of 
a  fighting  man.  As  Tim  entered  this  man  was 
speaking.  Before  ten  words  had  been  said,  Tim 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

knew  that  his  entrance  had  been  forecasted  and 
that  this  was  Buck  Malone. 

"And  he'll  be  up  there  on  that  platform  all 
alone — not  a  soul  with  him,  because  these  two 
dubs  that  ought  to  be  standing  by  him,  they've 
got  cold  feet  already.  And  he'll  be  up  there  all 
alone,  except  for  a  pitcher  of  cold  water  and  a 
glass,  and  a  table  and  a  chair;  and  he'll  begin  to 
spout.  I  dunno  whether  he  c'n  talk  or  not;  but 
we'll  let  him  run  on  for  maybe  ten  minutes,  and 
about  the  time  he  thinks  he's  making  a  hit  I'll 
start  up  and  I'll  raise  my  forefinger  like  that — 
see  ?  And  that'll  mean  everybody  get  up  and  go 
out.  No  hurry,  mind  you — nor  no  hustlin';  but 
everybody  just  stand  up  and  walk  out  and  leave 
him  talkin'  to  that  picture  o'  that  dago,  or  who- 
ever he  is,  discoverin'  the  Mississippi  on  the  back 
wall. 

"And  now  you" — Malone  turned  leisurely  to  a 
stocky-looking  young  fellow  in  seedy  clothes  stand- 
ing wistfully  off  to  one  side — "you  go  on  and  pass 
the  word  to  'em  as  they  come  out  o'  the  quarries." 

"All  right,"  answered  the  stocky  one  in  a  hoarse 
voice,  but  without  moving. 

A  meagre-looking  man  stood  behind  the  cigar- 
case. 

"Will  you  let  me  have,"  said  Tim  to  him, 
"three  good  cigars?" 

70 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

The  man  behind  the  cigar-case  looked  slyly  at 
Malone. 

"How  good?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  pretty  fair — three  for  a  dollar  or  so." 

"Three  for  a —  I  got  nothing  like  that  here. 
Fifteen  cents  straight's  the  best  I  got." 

"All  right;   they'll  do." 

The  boss  had  not  been  smoking  when  Tim 
entered;  but  now  he  turned  to  look  better  at 
Tim,  and  he  pulled  a  cigar  from  his  vest-pocket, 
bit  off  the  end,  scratched  a  match,  and  leisurely 
lit  it — all  without  taking  his  eyes  off  Tim. 

Tim  also  leisurely  bit  the  end  off  a  cigar.  The 
proprietor  pushed  three  or  four  matches  across 
the  case.  Tim,  ignoring  them,  stepped  close  to 
the  boss. 

"Would  you  let  me  have  a  light?"  he  inquired 
politely. 

"H-ff!  h-ff!"  The  boss  swallowed  quite  a 
little  smoke,  but  recovered  and  passed  over  his 
cigar.  Tim  took  his  light  from  it,  said  "Thanks!" 
briefly,  and — puff-pufF — contemplated  the  boss's 
stout  henchman  in  the  rusty  clothes,  who  was 
still  standing  irresolutely  at  one  side. 

"Smoke?"  inquired  Tim  suddenly,  and  thrust 
a  cigar  at  him. 

"Wh-h—  '  stuttered  the  henchman,  and  then 
almost  snatched  it  from  Tim's  hand. 

71 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"You  gettin'  hard  o'  hearin'?  Thought  I  told 
you  to  get  along!"  snapped  Malone. 

"I  am  goin'  along,"  returned  the  husky  voice, 
"soon's  I  light  up."  In  the  curling  of  the  smoke 
from  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  in  the  whoofing  of 
it  toward  the  ceiling,  in  the  squaring  of  the  thick 
shoulders  as  he  passed  out — there  was  a  hint  of 
rebellion. 

"You  may  be  the  boss,"  thought  Tim,  "but 
your  grip  isn't  too  sure."  And  turning  squarely 
on  Malone  he  observed  genially:  "Fine  day." 

"H-p-p — "  Malone  stared  fixedly  at  Tim. 
Tim  stared  back.  Tim  was  rapidly  developing  a 
feeling  of  respect  for  the  man.  Tim  knew  the 
kind.  A  few  years  back  he  had  been  such  an 
uncompromising  one  himself,  who  would  have 
whipped  off  his  coat,  as  no  doubt  Malone  would 
now,  and  battled  on  the  spot  in  preference  to 
verbal  argument. 

"It  is  a  fine  day,"  responded  Malone  slowly; 
"but  accordin'  to  my  dope  it  ain't  goin'  to  be  half 
so  fine  a  night." 

From  behind  the  cigar-case  came  a  giggle,  and 
from  the  boss  himself  came  an  after-chuckle  and 
a  pleased  little  smile. 

"Why,  it's  not  going  to  rain,  is  it?"  asked  Tim, 
and  with  an  appropriately  innocent  manner  he 
stepped  to  the  door  to  look  at  the  sky;  and  in 

72 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

looking  he  saw  not  the  sky,  but  the  widow  Nolan, 
with  some  odds  and  ends  of  firewood,  making  her 
halting  way  against  the  wind. 

"The  poor  creature!"  murmured  Tim;  and 
while  pitying  her  the  plan  came  to  him.  "Gentle- 
men," he  said  over  his  shoulder,  "I  have  to  be 
off;  but  before  going  I  cordially  invite  you  and  all 
your  friends  to  the  town  hall  to-night,  to  discuss 
the  issues  of  the  campaign.  Good  day,  gentlemen." 

And  through  the  door,  before  it  closed  after 
him,  he  could  hear  the  cackle  of  the  man  behind 
the  cigar-case:  "Is  it  going  to  rain!  Say,  Buck, 
you  won't  do  a  thing  to  him  to-night,  will  yuh?" 

Ill 

With  his  greeting  of  "Good  afternoon  to  you, 
Mrs.  Nolan!"  Tim  stowed  the  widow's  little  bun- 
dle under  his  left  arm. 

"And  good  afternoon  to  you,  sir;  but  you'll  be 
sp'iling  your  fine  clothes,  sir!" 

"And  if  I  do  it's  small  loss."  He  gripped  her 
right  elbow.  "It's  the  hard  walking  it  is,  Mrs. 
Nolan — what  with  the  wind  and  the  steep  hill 
and  an  old  lady  of  your  age." 

"Oh,  yeh,  it  is — coming  on  to  seventy-five." 

"Seventy-five?  And  you  still  hopping  about 
active  as  a  grasshopper!  A  great  age  that.  'Tis 

73 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

little,  I'm  afraid,  many  of  us  young  ones  will  be 
thinking  of  climbing  steep  hillsides  when  we're 
coming  on   to   seventy-five.      'Tis  you  was   the 
active  one  in  your  young  days,  I'll  wager." 
"Tis  me  that  was,  sir;   but  oh,  I'm  not  that 


now." 


"It's  sad  it  must  be  to  be  looking  back  on  the 
bright  dancin'  days  o'  youth,  Mrs.  Nolan." 

"Sure  and  it  is,  sir;  but  why — the  fine  bouncin' 
lad  ye  are — why  should  you  be  sayin'  it?" 

"Ah,  sure,  youth  has  its  trials  and  tribulations 
too,  ma'am,  sometimes.  And  is  this  your  little 
place?" 

"It  is.    An'  will  you  come  in,  sir?" 

"I  will  and  thank  ye  kindly,  ma'am.  'Tisn't 
every  day  a  lady  invites  me  into  her  place." 

"Whisht!  There  are  ladies  enough  to  be  pleas- 
ant to  a  fine  strappin'  lad  like  you,  with  nothing 
on  earth  to  be  botherin'  you." 

Tim  laughed  as  he  sat  down. 

"Nothing?    Oh,  ma'am " 

"And  what  is  it  can  be  worryin'  you,  sir?" 

"What  is  it?  Well,  if  you  had  my  job,  Mrs. 
Nolan,  I'm  thinkin'  you'd  be  worrying,  too;  even 
if  'twas  big  and  strong  and  a  man  you  were,  and 
but  thirty  years  of  age.  I'm  the  Republican 
speaker,  ma'am,  that  has  been  sent  to  ye  here. 
And  for  why?  To  convert  ye,  ma'am." 

74 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"And  so  you're  a  Republican,  sir?  Well,  well 
— but,  savin'  your  presence,  you  don't  look  it  or 
talk  it.  Sure,  you're  as  Irish  as  myself!" 

"I'm  that  Irish,  ma'am,  that  if  you  were  to 
take  the  Irish  from  out  of  me  it's  faded  and  limp 
as  a  mornin'-glory  at  two  in  the  afternoon  I'd 
be." 

"And  what's  your  name,  may  I  ask?" 

"Riley,  ma'am.    Timothy  Joseph  Riley,  to  be 


exact." 


"Riley— Tim  Riley!  Well,  you're  the  first 
Riley  ever  I  knew  was  a  Republican.  That  thin- 
necked  one  in  the  bank,  and  that  other  one,  the 
fat-necked  one  in  the  real-estate  place — sure,  you 
don't  favor  them  no  more  than —  Yet  there  must 
be  good  men  Republicans,  too.  Will  you  have  a 
cuppeen  o'  tea?  'Tisn't  much;  but  'twill  war-rm 
you,  maybe,  on  the  chill  day." 

"Thank  you;  and  'twill  taste  fine — a  cup  o' 
tea  on  a  chill  day  like  this.  And  like  to  be  chiller, 
Mrs.  Nolan." 

"True  for  ye.  And  gen'rally  I  feels  it;  but  not 
so  to-day,  sir.  Mr.  Kearney  gave  me  a  dollar, 
sayin'  it  was  from  a  stranger  and  I  wasn't  to  men- 
tion it — and  I  won't;  but" — she  shot  a  quick, 
warm  glance  at  Tim — "God  guard  the  kind  heart 
of  him,  whoever  he  is.  To-morrow  I'll  be  orderin' 
some  beautiful  groceries  with  it.  'Tis  a  gran' 

75 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

sinsation  to  be  goin'  into  a  store  and  orderin' 
things." 

She  stooped  for  her  little  bundle  of  fagots,  but 
Tim  forestalled  her.  He  undid  them,  arranged 
them  craftily  in  the  stove  with  rolls  of  old  news- 
paper beneath,  and  touched  a  match  to  the  fire. 

"There,  ma'am." 

"We'll  have  the  little  kittle  b'ilin'  in  a  minute 
now,  sir." 

"And  what  will  you  do  against  the  cold  winter 
comin',  ma'am?" 

"Oh,  yeh!  I'll  do,  no  doubt,  what  I've  done 
every  winter  since  I  come  here — live  through  it." 

"With  the  cold  wind  coming  through  the  wide 
cracks  and  the  snow  piling  high  on  the  wintry 
mornings,  it  won't  be  the  tightest  place  in  the 
world,  ma'am." 

"Thanks  be  to  God  I  have  it — the  same  little 
cabin!" 

"Thank  God  you  have!  Whisht,  ma'am" — 
Tim  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  hers  as  she  spooned 
the  tea  out  of  the  can — "you  won't  be  leaving 
yourself  any  at  all." 

"Sure,  there's  enough  for  the  breakfast.  And 
if  we  could  always  be  sure  of  our  breakfast  it's 
little  we'd  have  to  complain  of.  And  now  let  me 
get  out  my  cups  and  saucers.  I  have  two  of  each, 
thank  God!" 

76 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"Let  me,  Mrs.  Nolan — I  see  them." 

"Well,  well — but  'tis  the  spry  lad  ye  are! 
Sure,  you're  across  the  floor  in  one  leap — like  a 
stag  just." 

"Oh,  sure;  my  legs  are  young.  And  one  spoon- 
ful o'  sugar  is  it,  ma'am?" 

"One — yes.  And  now  sit  down.  And  so  it's 
a  Republican  ye  are?  And  an  Irishman,  too? 
Well,  well — they  do  be  queer  happenin's  in  the 
world!" 

"Queer  enough.  And  from  what  part  of  Ire- 
land are  ye,  ma'am?" 

"Galway." 

"A  fine  place,  ma'am.     I  know  it." 

"Do  ye  now?    But  you're  not  Galway?" 

"I  wouldn't  lie  to  ye,  ma'am,  though  I'm 
tempted — I'm  not;  but  I  had  an  uncle,  as  fine  a 
man  as  ever  lived,  who  died  there.  I  went  to  see 
him  there  once,  and  a  grand  time  I  had  with  salm- 
on-fishin'  in  the  loch  and  fishin'  with  the  Clad- 
dagh  men  in  the  bay — and  on  a  Saturday  night 
the  little  boys  singin'  the  old  Irish  songs  in  the 
streets  and  before  Mrs.  Mack's  hotel  door.  And 
was  it  in  Galway  the  last  of  your  people  died?" 

"It  wasn't.  And  they  didn't  die — they  were 
killed,  God  rest  their  souls!" 

"Amen!" 

The  sticks  in  the  little  stove  crackled;  the 
77 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

water  in  the  little  kettle  spluttered;  a  gaunt 
black  cat  crowded  his  way  through  the  poorly 
fastened  door  and  rubbed  himself  against  Tim's 
legs,  whereat  the  widow  threw  a  stick  of  wood  at 
him. 

"Out  o'  that,  you  with  your  mud  on  you  from 
the  quarry  pools  sp'ilin'  the  gentleman's  fine 
clothes!" 

"Small  harm  he'll  do,  ma'am." 

"It's  better  manners  he  ought  to  be  havin', 
though  'tis  fine  to  see  a  man  like  yourself  hasn't 
too  much  conceit  of  his  clothes.  But  now  have 
your  tea,  avic." 

"I  will.  Ah-h!  and  the  fine  tea,  it  is,  too.  And 
isn't  it  a  queer  thing  now,  Mrs.  Nolan,  that  I  can 
go  to  the  finest  hotels  in  the  land  and  not  get  the 
like  o'  this  for  tea?  The  finest  of  hotels — yes; 
and  here  in  a  little  cabin,  with  the  wind  blowing 
through  the  cracks,  I'm  havin*  tea  that  for  its 
equal  I'd  have  to  go — well,  to  China  itself,  I'm 
thinking.  But  tell  me,  Mrs.  Nolan — it's  as  a 
friend  I  ask — what  misfortune  was  it  brought 
you  to  be  living  in  a  little  shebeen  on  this  rocky 
hillside?" 

The  old  woman  made  no  response,  except  to 
add  three  or  four  little  sticks  of  wood  from  her 
pile  to  freshen  the  fire.  It  was  still  chilly  and  out- 
side it  was  windy,  and  Tim  drew  the  man's  worn 

78 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

coat  about  her  shoulders  and  made  her  sit  closer 
to  the  fire.  And  by  and  by  she  told  him. 

When  she  had  done  the  twilight  was  on  them 
and  the  fire  long  gone  out.  Through  the  one 
little  window  of  the  cabin  they  could  see  the  in- 
creasing lights  in  the  town  below,  and  from  the 
road  they  could  hear  the  tramping  of  heavy- 
booted  men. 

"They'll  be  hurrying  home  from  the  quarries 
now.  And  'tis  not  a  lonesome  home  they  will  be 
finding." 

"True,  ma'am." 

And  Tim  sat  there  smoking  the  last  of  the 
three  cigars  he  had  bought  that  afternoon,  and 
thinking — thinking — sometimes  of  the  evening's 
work  before  him,  but  mostly  of  the  old  woman's 
story. 

"Oh,  yeh;  if  it  was  but  a  stone  I  had  to  put  on 
their  two  graves  in  the  cemetery  below!"  she  said 
after  a  long  silence. 

"And  why  shouldn't  you  have  the  stone  to  put 
over  them?"  Tim  jumped  up  and  patted  her 
white,  straggling  hair.  "And  you  will  have  it, 
Nanna.  Come  with  me  to-night  and  I'll  guarantee 
you'll  have  it." 

"And  where  will  I  go?" 

"With  me  and  have  a  fine,  hot  supper  at  Kear- 
ney's— and  then  to  the  town  hall  to  hear  me 
speak." 

79 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"Indeed  and  I'd  like  that  fine,  Mr.  Riley;  but 
they  don't  be  invitin'  women — old  women — to 
any  rallies." 

''  'Tis  me  is  giving  the  rally,  and  I'll  invite 
whom  I  please — I  mean,  if  you're  not  afraid  of 
the  rioting  when  they  don't  like,  maybe,  what 
I'm  going  to  say  to  them." 

"Me  afraid?  Of  what?  Sure  and  they  could 
be  liftin'  the  roof  itself  from  the  town  hall  and  a 
lone  woman  like  myself  would  be  safe  among 
them.  But  why  should  you  be  wanting  me 
there?" 

"Why?  I'll  tell  you,  Nanna,  and  you  must 
take  it  for  the  true  reason  until  I  can  give  you  a 
better.  And  who  knows  it  isn't  the  true  reason? 
I'm  that  vain,  Nanna,  that  I  want  some  one  soul 
there  that  isn't  against  me — some  one  that,  before 
ever  I  begin,  I  know  will  hear  me  out.  If  you're 
there  I  know  whose  heart  will  be  warm  to  me 
while  I'm  speaking.  For  'tis  terrible  discouraging 
to  see  nothing  but  cold  faces  staring  up  from  the 
benches  and  your  heart  bursting  to  tell  them  what's 


in  it." 


"Sure  and  it  must  be,  avic.  The  cold  heart — 
'tis  an  awful  thing.  A  bony  black  cat  itself  is 
more  company  in  the  house  than  one  of  our- 
selves when  the  heart  is  ice.  But  whisper" — 
she  leaned  doubtfully  toward  him — "d'y'  think 
there'd  be  hope  of  you  turnin'  Dimicrat?" 

80 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  fixed  where  I  am.  I'm  not 
easily  turned,  Nanna." 

"Oh,  yeh!  Well,  well — in  one  minute,  Timmie 
avic,  I'll  be  along  with  you." 

And  she  dusted  the  hearth  and  gathered  up  her 
cups  and  saucers,  which,  as  she  washed,  Tim 
dried.  And  presently  he  was  guiding  her  halting 
steps  down  the  hill. 

IV 

At  eight  o'clock  that  night  Tim  was  facing  his 
audience,  and  a  fine,  large  audience  it  was — not 
a  hand's  width  in  a  single  bench  vacant;  from 
the  front  row,  where  sat  Buck  Malone,  almost 
smiling,  to  the  back  wall,  where  De  Soto  with 
some  Indians  and  mailed  companions  was  dis- 
covering the  Mississippi — from  stage  to  entrance, 
not  a  vacant  seat.  What  hopes  for  a  man  in  a 
fighting  audience  like  that  if  he  could  but  win 
them  to  him! 

Tim  was  alone  on  the  stage. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "the  Republican  party 
in  New  Ireland  seems  to  be  very  busy  to-night. 
One-half  of  it  has  to  attend  a  conference  of  bank 
cashiers  over  in  Rocktown;  and  Rocktown,  it 
appears,  is  four  miles  in  a  buggy  over  a  rough 
road.  That  rough  road  and  the  buggy  are,  of 

81 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

course,  an  incontrovertible  argument,  gentle- 
men. And  the  other  half  has  a  rich  prospect- 
ive customer  for  a  couple  of  town  lots — also  over 
in  Rocktown.  A  busy  little  place  that  Rocktown 
must  be!  I  don't  wonder  you're  smiling.  I 
smiled  myself  when  they  told  me. 

"But  if  they  are  not  here,  gentlemen,  to  ac- 
credit me,  I  am  here  to  speak  for  myself.  And, 
as  you  see,  there  is  the  table,  the  chair,  the  ice- 
water  pitcher,  the  empty  glass,  all  as" — he  smiled 
down  at  the  boss  in  the  front  row — "as  Mr.  Malone 
said  it  would  be.  Twas  this  very  afternoon  Mr. 
Malone  spoke  of  it;  and,  myself  happening  to 
hear  him,  I  would  not  for  a  lord  lieutenant's  in- 
come disappoint  him.  'Twas  my  good  old  mother 
— God  rest  her  soul! — who  used  to  say — and 
many's  the  time  she  said  it:  'Timmie  dear,  don't 
never  disappoint  people  if  you  can  help  it.'  And 
I  never  do — especially  when  it  don't  cost  me  any- 
thing; for  water  is  the  only  thing  I  had  to  bring 
into  the  hall  to-night — and  water,  gentlemen,  is 
cheap." 

"Yes,  an'  talk's  cheap,  too!" 

Tim  bowed  to  the  voice  and  smiled  with  the 
laugh  that  followed. 

"God  knows  it  is  cheap.  If  it  wasn't  'tisn't  the 
likes  o'  me  could  afford  to  be  handing  it  out  to  you 
to-night,  and  no  charge  for  admission  at  the  door." 

82 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"Say,  Buck,  his  ten  minutes'll  be  used  up  be- 
fore ever  he  gets  started!"  came  a  voice  from  mid- 
way of  the  hall. 

"True  for  you,  boy.  And  so  I'll  be  introdu- 
cing myself.  My  history  is  short.  Riley  is  my 
name,  Timothy  Joseph  Riley — baptized  by  Father 
Kiley,  in  the  parish  of  Ballymallow — and  I'm  a 
Republican." 

"And  there's  what  we'd  like  to  have  you  tell 
us,  Misther  Riley — how  came  you  to  be  a  Re- 
publican?" 

"Yes,  you  blarneyin'  turncoat — how  came  ye?" 

A  man  in  the  front  row  stood  up  to  say  that 
last,  a  rugged-looking  man,  who  looked  as  if  he 
would  like  mighty  well  to  jump  up  on  the  stage 
and  haul  Tim  down  off  it.  Toward  him  Tim 
stepped,  leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  stage  so 
that  the  belligerent  one  would  not  miss  a  syllable. 

"I'll  tell  how  I  came  to  be  a  Republican.  When 
I  landed  in  this  country  and  before  I  was  fairly 
out  of  Castle  Garden  some  thief  of  a  pickpocket 
or  worse  stole  the  few  little  dollars  I  had  to  keep 
me  until  I  could  get  a  job.  I  was  a  seventeen- 
year-old  boy,  and  that  shy  I  couldn't  beg.  For 
two  days  not  a  morsel  of  food  went  into  my  mouth. 
And  there  I  was,  jumping  sideways  with  the  hun- 
ger, when  a  man  comes  along  and  saw  me  and 
brought  me  into  a  grand  restaurant.  'And  how'll 

83 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

I  ever  pay  you?'  I  asks  when  I'd  eaten  my  fill. 
He  was  a  butcherman,  with  a  white  smock  on 
him.  And  he  laughs  and  says:  'You  can't  now; 
but  by  and  by,  when  you  get  a  vote,  be  sure  and 
vote  the  Republican  ticket.'  And  I  says:  'Why 
the  Republican  ticket?'  And  he  says:  'Oh,  just 
by  way  o'  variety — just  to  show  that  you  people 
don't  all  go  one  way.' 

"And "--Tim  straightened  up — "I  took  his 
hand,  and  'Sir,  I  will!'  I  said.  He  was  joking, 
maybe;  but  I  wasn't.  And  I  did  vote  the  Re- 
publican ticket;  and  I'm  still  voting  the  Republi- 
can ticket.  And  I'm  saying  to  you  all  to-night — 
the  one  Republican  among  five  hundred  of  ye — 
that  I'm  not  apologizing  to  any  man  in  this  hall 
or  any  other  hall  for  it.  And  I'm  saying  to  you" 
— in  the  face  of  the  inquiring  man  in  the  front 
row,  in  the  face  of  Buck  Malone,  in  the  face  of 
the  whole  hall,  Tim  clinched  his  fist — "I'm  say- 
ing that  the  man  of  Irish  blood  who  ever  forgets 
the  promise  that  he's  made  to  the  one  that  be- 
friended him — I  say  to  ye  all,  and  I  don't  care 
whether  ye  like  it  or  not — his  blood's  been  crossed 
somewhere;  he's  no  Irish  in  him!  No — nor  fit  to 
be  called  a  man  at  all!" 

Tim  stepped  back  to  pour  out  a  glass  of  water; 
a  form  rose  up  midway  of  the  hall,  and  a  voice 
roared  out: 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

"Say,  you  Riley  man,  your  politics  are  the 
divil's  own,  but  you're  Irish  all  right.  Go  on!" 

Tim  held  the  glass  toward  the  speaker. 

"And,  ma  bouchal,  'tis  you  has  the  Irish  heart 
in  you,  too.  Here's  to  you!  You  stubborn,  un- 
converted, hereditary  Democrat,  here's  to  you!" 
He  drained  the  glass. 

"Go  on!    Tell  us  more!" 

"Yes;   goon— talk  up!" 

"You'll  get  a  show  here.     Go  on!" 

Tim  glanced  down  at  Buck  Malone,  swept  the 
benches  for  the  sight  of  a  more  cheerful  face  and 
caught  the  friendly  eyes  of  Peter  Kearney.  Also 
he  suddenly  recognized  the  face  of  Malone's 
henchman — the  man  to  whom  he  had  given  the 
cigar.  He  was  wagging  his  head  encouragingly. 

"Gentlemen,  I  will  go  on — and  thank  you  for 
the  chance.  And,  with  your  permission,  gentle- 
men, I'll  speak  of  something  besides  politics.  It 
is  of  charity.  Gentlemen,  a  great  quality  is  char- 
ity. Only  because  of  the  spirit  of  charity  in  you, 
gentlemen,  am  I  allowed  to  speak  to  you  here  to- 
night; but  it's  another  phase  of  charity  I'd  like 
to  speak  of.  I  will  put  it  in  the  form  of  a  story 
— and,  gentlemen,  not  too  long  a  story. 

"There  was  an  old  lady  in  the  old  country,  who 
received  a  letter  from  her  oldest  son,  John,  with 
passage-money  for  her  second  son,  Pat,  to  come 

85 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

over  and  join  him.  She  gave  her  consent.  Why 
wouldn't  she — when  the  living  was  so  hard  ?  Pat 
went,  leaving  his  mother  of  nigh  seventy  and  the 
last  of  his  brothers  with  her.  One  son  had  already 
gone  to  South  America  and  another  to  Australia; 
and  now  only  a  boy  was  left  to  her — and  him 
with  one  leg  gone  in  a  railroad  accident,  for  which 
they'd  never  got  a  farthing." 

At  this  point  Tim  heard  the  side  door  softly 
open  and  close.  He  took  a  quick  backward  peek. 
Dinnie  and  old  Nanna  Nolan  were  waiting  in  the 
wings.  Tim  signed  to  them  to  remain  there. 
He  stepped  to  the  front  of  the  stage  then,  just  in 
time  to  see  Malone,  whose  every  move  he  was 
watching,  uncross  his  legs  and  half  rise  in  his  seat. 
Tim  looked  at  him  steadily  and  waited.  Malone 
did  not  move  farther,  and  Tim  resumed: 

"Well,  the  two  sons  in  America,  strong  and 
willing,  worked  side  by  side,  earning  their  dol- 
lar and  a  quarter  and  their  dollar  and  a  half  a 
day,  with  now  and  again  a  day's  or  a  week's  lay- 
off to  set  them  back,  but  managing  always  be- 
tween them  to  save  four  dollars  in  the  week  and 
send  it  over  every  month  to  the  old  mother — until 
by  and  by,  she  scrimping  and  saving,  too,  there 
was  passage-money  for  herself  and  the  lad  to  come 
to  America.  They  took  the  steamer  at  Queens- 
town;  and  'twas  like  a  grand  dream  to  them — 

86 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

until  one  day  there  came  a  great  storm  and  the 
ship  leaped  and  jumped,  and  the  poor,  helpless, 
crippled  boy  was  thrown  down  an  iron  ladder;  and 
when  some  one  thought  to  help  the  poor  mother 
pick  him  up  he  was  dead.  Well —  But,  gen- 
tlemen, maybe  I'm  trying  your  patience?" 

"Go  on!"  came  a  voice,  and  "Go  on!"  came 
another;  and  then  three,  four,  a  dozen  voices 
called  for  him  to  continue. 

"Thank  you.  Well,  gentlemen,  a  tempest  in 
the  great  ocean,  with  its  tremendous  winds  and 
mountains  of  seas,  must  be  a  terrible  sight;  but 
surely  a  more  terrible  sight  is  to  see  that  same 
ocean,  as  smooth  as  oil,  and  the  blue  heavens 
smiling  down,  while  the  body  of  one  that's  dear  to 
you  is  lowered  into  it!  So  it  was.  With  loose, 
wide  stitches  they'd  sewed  the  boy  into  canvas; 
and  to  the  one  foot  of  him  they  tied  a  piece  of  an 
old  grate-bar,  and  dropped  him  into  that  great 


ocean." 


Tim  saw  Malone  shoot  a  furtive  glance  side- 
ways to  learn  how  they  were  taking  it  in  the  front 
row.  Plainly  he  was  not  liking  it,  for  he  stood  up 
straight  then  and  surveyed  the  rows  of  voters 
behind  him.  Tim  waited,  and  every  man  there 
knew  why  he  waited.  There  was  an  indrawing  of 
breaths  all  over  the  hall.  Malone,  without  show- 
ing the  ordering  forefinger,  sat  down  again. 

Tim  bowed  to  him.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Malone, 
87 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

for  that  fighting  chance,"  which  remark  brought 
out  a  quick  burst  of  applause. 

"Well,  gentlemen,  that  poor  old  woman  landed 
in  the  strange  country.  Grief-stricken  she  was, 
but  not  yet  utterly  discouraged.  The  son  Pat 
was  to  meet  her  at  the  dock.  He  was  not  there. 
Well,  she  could  see  a  good  reason  for  that.  They 
could  not  leave  their  work — sometimes  the  bosses 
were  strict — they  had  often  written  so  in  their 
letters.  No  matter.  With  not  much  left  of  her 
little  savings,  she  bought  a  ticket  and  took  the 
train  for  the  town  where  her  two  sons  were  work- 
ing. Well,  neither  was  Pat  at  the  station  to 
greet  her — but  by  and  by  she  learned  why. 

"There  had  been  a  premature  explosion  in  the 
quarries,  and  a  fall  of  rock  had  knocked  Pat 
senseless;  and  as  he  lay  there,  unconscious,  a 
second  blast  came  and  killed  him.  Well,  that  was 
an  awful  thing;  but  still  there  was  the  son  John. 
And  they  had  then  to  tell  her  of  John.  Well, 
while  Pat  lay  there  helpless,  another  man  had  run 
in  to  carry  him  out  of  danger.  He  was  a  brave 
man,  that  second  man,  for  the  flame  of  the  second 
fuse  was  then  almost  to  the  charge;  but  he  ran 
in  and  he  had  the  injured  man  in  his  arms  when 
the  second  explosion  came.  They  were  killed  to- 
gether. That  second  man  was  her  other  son, 
John." 

Tim  paused;  but  he  no  longer  had  to  ask  their 
88 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

leave  to  speak.  He  was  in  full  swing;  and  out 
there,  beyond  the  ends  of  his  nervous,  spreading 
fingers,  they  were  swinging  with  him.  Sitting  up 
straight  and  still  they  were — or  leaning  forward, 
bent  and  eager. 

A  potent  gift,  the  orator's.  A  writer  may  never 
hope  to  achieve  instantly  his  great  intention. 
He  is  limited  to  monotonous-looking  black  words 
on  a  blank  page.  But  a  speaker!  Added  to  the 
words  are  eyes,  lips,  hands,  head,  body,  and  the 
immeasurable  force  of  personality.  Tim's  voice 
softened  and  deepened,  halted  and  quickened, 
rounded  and  trembled;  the  ruddy  cheek  took  on 
a  ruddier  color;  his  deep-set  eyes  grew  deeper  and 
darker,  and  by  and  by  they  flamed.  He  grew 
taller;  his  body  expanded.  He  spread  his  hands 
— fine,  shapely  hands,  with  nervous,  expressive 
fingers — and  as  he  gestured  he  quivered  to  his 
very  finger-tips,  and  down  there  on  the  benches 
they  quivered  with  him.  The  cold  words — he 
warmed  and  revivified  them.  Under  the  caress  of 
his  beautiful,  barely  perceptible  brogue  the  com- 
monest, harshest  lines  took  on  smoothness  and 
roundness;  and  from  out  his  mouth  the  fine,  ten- 
der words  bloomed  like  summer  flowers;  and  the 
larger,  colorful  words  flashed  like  gems. 

Tim,  in  short,  was  an  orator.  And  when  he 
said:  "There,  gentlemen,  you  have  the  story — 

' 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

and  you  know  whose  story  it  is.  Poor  old  Nanna 
Nolan's — yes:"  when  he  had  said  that,  with 
arms  and  hands  no  longer  gesturing,  but  droop- 
ing straight  and  motionless  by  his  side,  no  one 
stirred — but  a  great  sigh  went  up. 

And  not  till  that  moment  did  Malone  wake  up 
to  it  that  he  had  waited  too  long;  but  that  mo- 
ment he  desperately  chose  to  take  his  position  at 
the  end  of  the  aisle  and  face  his  hitherto  unbroken 
constituency;  and  while  Malone  was  doing  that 
Tim  was  motioning  to  Dinnie  in  the  wings;  and 
now  Dinnie  was  leading  her  out — old  Nanna 
Nolan,  halting  and  bewildered,  blinking  at  the 
audience — as  Tim  held  up  one  hand  for  a  last 
word. 

"Here  she  is!  I've  tried  to  tell  you  her  story, 
gentlemen;  but  there's  only  one  living  person 
can  tell  that  story  right,  and  I'm  not  that  one.  If 
you  could  have  heard  her  telling  it — she  in  her 
little  cabin  on  that  windy  hillside,  before  her  little 
stove,  with  the  dark  coming  down  and  the  lights 
beginning  to  shine  through " 

And  that  instant,  while  Tim's  arm  was  across 
her  poor  thin  shoulders,  covered  as  ever  with  the 
worn  man's  coat — that  instant  Malone,  whose 
back  was  to  the  stage,  chose  to  raise  his  fateful 
forefinger. 

And  Tim  waited.    And  Malone  waited. 
90 


"That  two-faced  chairman  of  yours — he  never  tipped  me  off  you 
could  fight  any  way  except  with  your  hands." 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

Not  a  man  left  the  hall. 

Malone  turned  and  faced  Tim. 

"You  win,"  he  said;  "but  that  two-faced 
chairman  of  yours — and  he  ain't  any  friend  of 
yours — he  never  tipped  me  off  you  could  fight 
any  way  except  with  your  hands.  Speak  the  rest 
of  your  piece.  You  win!" 

Back  at  headquarters  the  state  chairman  had 
been  for  an  hour  trying  to  extract  a  little  comfort 
from  the  newspaper  story  of  the  New  Ireland 
upheaval  when  the  tall  boss  came  in.  To  the 
boss,  of  course,  he  had  to  make  some  comment, 
and  he  made  it. 

"This  man  Riley,"  he  began  cautiously,  "I've 
been  trying  to  discover  whether  he's  a  Republican 
or  a  Democrat  by  what  he  says  here." 

"How's  that?" 

"He  says:  'Take  your  leaders:  and  if  they 
don't  carry  out  your  will  fire  'em  out!  If  the 
men  you  have  set  on  high  betray  you,'  he  puts 
it,  'lasso  'em  off  their  pedestals  and  set  'em  on  the 
street  level  again!'  If  that  isn't " 

" — government  by  the  people?" 

"I  wasn't  going  to  say  that,  sir." 

"Why  not?  Isn't  that  what  it  amounts  to? 
Let  me  see  your  paper,  please.  H-m!  I  don't 
see  what  there  is  here  to  object  to.  He  is  not 

91 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

against  a  party  government;  in  fact,  he's  all  for 
party.  Only  make  sure  the  party  leaders  are 
honest,  he  says,  in  politics,  religion,  business — in 
everything;  and  if  they  do  not  live  up  to  their 
promises  read  them  their  lesson.  Well,  why  not? 
I  think  he's  right.  The  people  know  more  than 
they  did  and  we  might  as  well  reckon  with  that 
new  knowledge.  The  men  who  don't  do  that 
might  as  well  give  up  the  leadership!" 

There  was  a  whole  page  of  it  in  the  New  Ireland 
Record  about  Tim.  The  senator  read  it  all.  When 
he  at  last  looked  up  he  murmured: 

"Raised  twelve  hundred  and  odd  dollars  for 
the  widow  Nolan.  That  was  surely  well  done! 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  votes  pledged  to  him  be- 
fore he  left  the  hall.  He  surely  has  the  touch! 
And  Malone  says  he's  going  to  stick  to  his  con- 
tracting hereafter.  Good  idea!" 

The  senator  read  on:  "And  Malone  also  says — 
also  says —  H-m!" 

The  chairman  was  startled  out  of  his  silence. 

"I  set  Malone  on  to  Riley — to  fool  him." 

"You  did!"  The  senator  scratched  his  beard 
with  his  finger-nails,  drew  his  chin  in  to  his  neck 
and  looked  over  his  pince-nez  at  the  chairman. 
"Too  bad  he  misunderstood  you — wasn't  it?  It 
would  be  so  nice  if  we  could  give  you  the  credit; 
but  I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  hand  it  to  Riley." 

92 


Tim  Riley's  Touch 

It  was  not  said  loudly;  but  the  tone  and  the 
glint  of  the  eyes — and  the  cultured  boss  stirred 
into  using  slang!  The  chairman  knew  that  he 
might  as  well  pick  up  his  hat  and  go. 

And  he  did;  after  he  wrote  out  his  resignation 
with  the  big  boss  dictating  it  over  his  shoulder. 


93 


IN  THE  ANCHOR  WATCH 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

THE  battle-fleet,  home  from  foreign  waters, 
now  lay,  within  a  mile-square,  emblazoned 
quadrangle,  to  placid  moorings  in  the  bay. 

From  the  after  bridge  of  his  own  ship  Lieuten- 
ant Wickett  had  been  observing  in  silence  the 
night  life  of  the  fleet,  but  when  from  some  happy 
quarter-deck  to  windward  there  floated  down  the 
opening  strains  of  a  mellow  folk-song,  he  lifted 
his  chin  from  arms  crossed  on  the  bridge  top-rail 
to  say  to  his  shore-going  friend  beside  him:  "Were 
you  ever  able  to  listen  to  a  ship's  band  over  water, 
Carlin,  and  not  get  to  feeling  homesick?" 

"Still  the  kid,  aren't  you?  How  can  you  be 
homesick  and  you  home?" 

"I'm  not  home — not  yet." 

Just  below  them  the  officer  of  the  deck  was 
roaming  the  quarter-deck.  A  ship's  messenger 
stepped  up  to  him,  saluted  and  said  smartly: 
"Two  bells,  sir." 

"Strike  'em,"  came  the  sharp  order;  and  as  the 
two  bells  were  striking,  from  other  ships,  from 

97 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

windward  and  leeward,  came  also  the  quick, 
sharp-toned  double  stroke. 

"Why,"  asked  Carlin,  "couldn't  they  strike 
those  two  bells  without  bothering  that  deck 
officer?" 

"Regulations." 

"They're  the  devil,  those  regulations,  Wickett." 

"Worse — sometimes.  You  can  steer  clear  of 
the  devil  if  you  want  to."  He  paused.  "And  yet 
it  would  soon  be  a  devil  of  a  service  without 


'em." 


A  sailor  stepped  up  to  the  officer  of  the  deck, 
and,  saluting,  said:  "Anchor  lights  burning 
bright,  sir." 

A  man  in  a  chief  petty  officer's  uniform  stepped 
up  to  the  officer  of  the  deck,  whereupon  Wickett, 
sitting  up,  said:  "That's  our  wireless  operator." 

"A  message  for  Mr.  Wickett,  sir,"  came  the 
operator's  voice. 

"You'll  find  Mr.  Wickett  on  the  after  bridge," 
the  officer  of  the  deck  said;  and  the  wireless  man 
came  up  the  bridge  ladder  and  saluted: 

"You  raised  the  Clermont,  Wesson?"  Wickett's 
voice  was  eagerly  anticipatory. 

"No,  sir,  I  could  not.    She  has  no  wireless." 

"Oh-h!" 

"But  I  raised  the  Cape  station,  and  they  re- 
ported she  passed  there  on  schedule  time." 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

"On  time?  Good!  Thank  you,  Wesson;  that's 
all." 

"Were  you  expecting  somebody  on  the  Cler- 
mont?"  asked  Carlin,  when  the  wireless  man  had 
gone. 

"Not  really  expecting.  My  home  is  a  thousand 
miles  from  here,  and  my  pay  won't  allow  of  my 
family  travelling  around  everywhere  to  meet  me. 
But  I  like  to  dream  of  rosy  possibilities,  don't 
you?" 

A  cool  night  breeze  was  blowing.  Wickett  bared 
his  head  to  it.  Presently  he  began  to  hum: 

"And  it's  O  you  little  baby  boy 
A-dancing  on  my  knee — 
Will  it  be  a  belted  charger 
Or  a  heaving  deck  to  sea? 
Is't  to  be  the  serried  pennants 
Or  the  rolling  blue  Na-vee? 
Or  is't  to  be " 

He  turned  to  Carlin.  "When  I  hear  myself  sing- 
ing that,  in  my  own  quarters  ashore,  then  I'm 
home — and  not  before." 

He  set  to  humming  softly  again: 

"And  it's  O  you  little  baby  girl 
Athwart  your  mother's  lap " 

Suddenly  he  asked:  "Were  you  ever  away  from 
home  sixteen  months?" 

99 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

Carlin  emphatically  shook  his  head.  "No,  sir. 
A  year  once.  And  I  don't  want  to  be  that  long 
away  again.  Were  you — before  this  cruise?" 

"Five  years  one  time." 

"F-i-i-ve!    Whee-eee  !    Pretty  tough  that." 

"Tough?  More — inhuman.  A  man  can  get 
fat  on  war,  but  five  years  from  your  family — !" 
He  raised  his  face  to  the  stars  and  whoofed  his 
despair  of  it. 

"My  year  away  from  home,"  said  Carlin, 
though  not  immediately,  "was  in  the  Philippines 
— where  I  first  met  you — remember?  The  night 
you  landed  from  the  little  tug  you  were  in  com- 
mand of  and  a  bunch  of  us — war  correspondents 
we  called  ourselves — were  gathered  around  a  big 
fire." 

Wickett  nodded.  "I  remember.  And  pretty 
blue  was  I?" 

"Not  at  first.  I  thought  you  were  the  most 
care-free  kid  I'd  met  in  months  as  you  sat  there 
telling  about  the  funny  things  that  had  happened 
you  and  your  little  war  tugboat.  But  towards 
morning,  with  only  the  two  of  us  awake,  I  remem- 
ber you  as  possibly  the  most  melancholy  young 
naval  officer  I'd  ever  met.  You  started  to  tell 
what  a  tough  life  the  navy  was  for  the  home- 
loving  officer  or  man,  and  I  had  a  special  reason 
for  being  interested  in  that.  I  had — I  still  have — 

100 


In  the  Anchor  'Watch 

a  nephew  with  his  eye  on  Annapolis.  But  just 
then  reveille  blew  the  camp  awake  and  you  went 
back  to  your  tugboat." 

Wickett  smiled,  though  not  too  buoyantly,  as 
he  said:  "Well,  on  my  next  cruise  to  the  East  I 
could  have  added  a  chapter  to  the  story  I  might 
have  told  you  by  that  overnight  camp-fire.  And 
I  will  now — but  wait." 

A  ship's  messenger  was  saluting  the  officer  of 
the  deck.  "Taps,  sir." 

"Tell  the  bugler  to  sound  taps,"  was  the  brisk 
command. 

The  ship's  bugler  had  already  taken  position, 
heels  together  and  facing  seaward,  in  the  super- 
structure bulkhead  doorway.  Looking  straight 
down,  Wickett  and  Carlin  could  see  him,  as, 
shoulders  lifting  and  blouse  expanding,  he  put 
his  lungs  into  the  call.  From  other  ships,  as  he 
called,  it  was  coming  also — the  long-noted,  melan- 
choly good  night  of  the  war  legions. 

When  the  last  lingering  note  drooped  out,  only 
one  ship,  and  she  a  far-away  one,  remained;  but 
from  her,  finally,  on  the  wings  of  the  night  breeze, 
the  last  notes  drifted — gently,  sweetly,  lonesomely, 
to  them. 

"What  was  keeping  me  walking  the  deck  or 
sitting  up  around  camp-fires  nights  in  the  Philip- 

101 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

pines  wasn't  Filipinos,"  began  Wickett.  "I'd 
been  in  the  East  a  year  that  time  we  met,  and  I 
put  in  another  year  on  top  of  that  in  China.  A 
terrible  two  years.  But  even  two  years  in  the 
East  with  your  heart  at  home  must  have  an  end- 
ing. After  all,  the  earth  can  only  revolve  so  many 
days  in  one  year,  though  at  times  I  used  to  be- 
lieve she'd  quit  revolving  altogether,  had  stopped 
dead,  was  only  marking  time — 'specially  nights — 
and  that  the  astronomical  sharps  weren't  on  to 
her  changes.  However,  at  last  she'd  rolled  her 
sun  up  and  her  sun  down  the  necessary  seven 
hundred  and  odd  times  and  I  was  headed  for 
home. 

"I  went  out  a  middy  and  came  back  an  ensign — 
which  is  very  important.  An  ensign  may  not 
rate  many  high  rights  in  the  service,  but  he  does 
rate  a  leave  of  absence.  And  when  my  leave 
came  I  flew  across  the  bay  to  the  fort,  where 
Colonel  Blenner — Doris's  father — was  comman- 
dant. And  on  the  way  over  I  had  a  thousand 
visions,  dreams,  hopes,  with  of  course  a  million 
misgivings,  fears,  doubts,  and  so  on. 

"When  I  met  her  I  set  it  down  right  away  that 
my  misgivings  had  come  true.  A  fleet  of  young 
artillery  officers  were  manoeuvring  within  shelling 
range  of  her,  and  while  I  didn't  expect  her  to 
bound  half-way  across  the  drill-ground  and  throw 

102 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

her  arms  around  my  neck,  or  anything  like  that, 
because  she  never  had  bounded  down  and  thrown 
her  arms  around  my  neck,  and  wasn't  the  bound- 
ing-down-and-throwing-her-arms-around-your-neck 
sort  of  a  girl  anyway;  but  what  I  did  sort  of 
hope  for  was  that  after  a  polite  little  interval  she'd 
turn  the  red-caped  chaps  adrift  and  say,  'Come 
on,  Dick,  let's  sit  down  here  in  the  corner  by  our- 
selves and  have  a  good  talk,'  and  perhaps  later, 
before  the  evening  got  too  old,  go  for  a  stroll  on 
the  long  walk,  same  as  she  used  to. 

"But  she  didn't  turn  any  of  them  loose.  She 
kept  them  all  about  her  while  she  drew  me  into 
the  middle  of  them.  But  poor  me!  I'd  had  no 
service  at  all  in  the  civilized  ports  and  hadn't 
seen  more  than  a  dozen  white  women  in  the  whole 
two  years  I'd  been  gone,  and  of  that  dozen  had 
spoken  to  only  three,  while  as  for  these  artillery 
chaps — !  They  made  -me  feel  like  a  six-pound 
shell  in  a  big  turret  magazine.  Any  one  of  them 
could  talk  the  eye  out  of  my  head  the  best  day 
I'd  ever  seen.  And  the  day  I  came  back  to  her 
wasn't  the  best  day  I'd  ever  seen — not  for  talk- 
ing purposes.  I  looked  at  and  listened  to  them, 
and  kept  saying  to  myself:  *  I  wonder  if  they  realize 
what  a  lucky  lot  they  are  to  be  able  to  stay  all 
the  time  around  where  civilized  women  live?' 
But  I  don't  believe  they  did.  They  took  every- 

103 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

thing  as  if  'twas  no  more  than  small-arms  ammuni- 
tion was  being  served  out  to  them. 

"In  my  room  in  the  hotel  that  night  I  began  to 
chart  a  few  new  courses  for  myself.  Before  I  left 
for  the  East  Doris  was  terribly  young  and  there'd 
been  no  other  war  heroes  hanging  around.  She 
and  her  mother  were  then  living  in  a  quiet  hotel 
near  my  house  while  her  father  was  off  on  some 
board  mission  in  the  West.  But  now  it  wasn't 
any  isolated  little  country  hotel.  It  was  post 
quarters,  with  her  father  the  commandant,  and 
a  parade  of  young  army  officers  in  and  out  of 
those  quarters,  with  squadrons  of  two  and  three- 
stripers  steaming  over  pretty  regularly  from  the 
navy-yard  across  the  bay.  And  she  was  two 
years  older — a  terrible  advance,  eighteen  to  twenty, 
and  I'd  been  two  years  gone. 

"You  said  a  while  ago,  Carlin,  'What  a  kid  you 
are!'  and  perhaps  I  am,  though  I  think  I'm  an  old, 
old  party  myself;  but  about  the  time  I  came  back 
from  the  East  that  first  time  I  must  have  been  a 
good  deal  of  a  kid.  I  know  now  I  was.  That  first 
night  at  the  hotel,  after  I'd  been  to  the  fort  all 
day,  I  talked  to  myself  in  good  shape.  And  I 
wound  up  by  saying:  'Well,  what  do  you  care? 
There  are  forty  nice  girls  between  this  hotel  and 
the  post.'  But  there  weren't  forty.  There  were 
a  hundred,  as  far  as  that  went,  but  there  was  only 

104 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

one  that  I  wanted  to  see  coming  over  the  side  of 
my  ship,  and  next  day  when  I  went  to  see  that 
one  again  I  set  out  to  win  her.  And  I'm  not  going 
to  give  you  any  history  of  the  courtship  of  Doris. 
I  couldn't  tell  it  right  if  I  wanted  to,  and  I  don't 
want  to — it's  our  own  private  story,  but  she  wasn't 
trifling  when  she  told  me  she'd  never  forget  me 
before  I  went  East.  In  a  week  it  all  came  back, 
and  once  more  we  were  walking  under  tall  pines 
and  sailing  in  a  beautiful  bay.  In  another  week 
it  was  as  when  I  left  her — I  had  hopes. 

"And  then  came  the  morning  of  the  last  day  of 
my  leave,  and  as  an  ensign  doesn't  rate  any 
shore  duty  I  knew  that  next  day  it  would  have  to 
be  back  to  my  ship  for  me;  though  that  same  ship 
being  slated  for  a  neighborly  berth  with  the  North 
Atlantic  fleet,  I  didn't  feel  too  discouraged.  I'd 
be  within  wireless  distance  at  least.  But  I  did 
not  want  to  go  without  a  promise.  The  night 
before  I  couldn't  get  two  minutes  together  with 
her — there  being  a  reception  in  her  father's  quar- 
ters to  somebody  or  other — but  when  I  was 
leaving  for  the  night  she  had  said  yes,  she'd 
come  sailing  with  me  in  the  morning  after  break- 
fast. And  I  left  the  hotel  at  sunrise  and  went 
down  to  the  boat-landing  to  overhaul  the  hotel's 
little  twenty-one-footer  to  make  sure  everything 
would  be  all  ready  for  our  sail  after  breakfast. 

105 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

"I  went  through  the  post  grounds  to  get  sight 
of  her  window  in  passing,  and  there  she  was — all 
dressed,  and  looking  out  across  the  bay  from  their 
veranda.  'I  was  just  wondering  if  you,  too,  would 
be  up  early  this  morning,  Dick/  she  said.  'Do 
you  think  it  is  going  to  storm?'  And  I  told  her 
no,  and  if  it  did,  what  matter?  And  without 
waiting  until  after  breakfast  we  went  off  for  our 
young  cruise  in  the  bay. 

"I  was  half  hoping  it  would  storm,  so  I  could 
show  her  what  I  could  do  with  that  little  boat. 
But  there  was  no  storm  or  anything  like  it.  There 
did  come  a  squall  of  wind  and  I  let  it  come,  wear- 
ing the  boat  around,  and  letting  the  main-sheet 
run.  And  she  zizzed.  And  I  let  her  zizz.  Noth- 
ing could  happen.  She  was  one  of  those  little 
craft  with  a  lead  keel  that  you  couldn't  capsize, 
which  I  explained  to  Doris,  while  down  on  her 
side  the  little  thing  was  tearing  a  white  path  in 
the  blue  water.  But  Doris's  people  had  been 
always  army  people,  and  she  hadn't  much  faith 
in  floating  contraptions.  She  clung  closer  to  me; 
and  the  two  of  us  sitting  together  and  nothing 
to  do  but  watch  the  boat  go,  why — well,  we  sat 
together  and  let  her  go. 

"The  breeze  died  down  until  there  wasn't 
enough  of  it  to  be  called  a  breeze,  but  that  was  no 
matter.  We  were  still  sitting  close  together  and 

106 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

while  we  sat  so,  I  found  courage  to  tell  her  what 
had  been  flooding  my  heart  through  all  those 
nights  and  days  in  Eastern  waters.  And  we  came 
back  to  breakfast  engaged.  And  after  breakfast 
Wickett  unexpectedly  turned  to  Carlin 
and  said,  half  shyly:  "I  suppose  you  still  think 
I'm  a  good  deal  of  a  kid  to  be  telling  you  all 
this?" 

Carlin  nodded  in  serene  agreement.  "I  always 
thought  you  were  a  good  deal  of  a  kid.  I  hope 
you  always  will  be.  God  save  me  from  the  man 
who  isn't  still  a  good  deal  of  a  kid  at  thirty.  What 
did  you  do  after  breakfast?" 

"After  breakfast  I  went  up  to  see  Colonel  Blen- 
ner,  and  found  him  on  his  veranda  smoking  his 
after-breakfast  cigar  before  he  went  over  to  guard- 
mount.  He  was  genial  as  ever;  except  that  he  put 
his  foot  down  on  an  engagement.  'An  engagement 
means  a  marriage,  or  should,'  he  says,  'and  how 
can  you  marry  on  an  ensign's  pay?  You  with 
your  mes-s  bills  and  other  expenses  aboard  ship, 
and  Doris  with  her  quarters  ashore — you  would 
never  meet  your  bills.' 

"I  agreed  with  him,  but  also  argued  with  him, 
and  shook  him  some,  but  could  not  quite  upset 
him.  I  left  him  to  run  back  to  the  hotel  to  throw 
my  things  together.  And  there  I  found  a  new 
complication — orders  were  waiting  me.  I  was  to 

107 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

be  detached  from  my  ship  and  to  take  command 
of  the  gunboat  Bayport — and  a  rust-eaten  old 
kettle  of  a  Bayport  she  was,  famous  for  her  dis- 
abilities; and  I  was  to  sail  for  Manila  next  morn- 
ing at  eight  o'clock.  Manila!  Another  jolt.  I 
sat  down  and  thought  it  out. 

"And  when  I  got  talking  to  myself  again,  I 
said:  'Doris  Blenner,  you're  a  great  girl — the 
best  ever;  but  you're  not  superhuman.  No  man 
has  a  right  to  expect  a  girl  to  be  that.  You're  too 
lovable,  too  human,  Doris,  to  be  the  superhuman 
kind.  I'll  be  away  in  the  East  Lord  knows  how 
long — another  two  years  perhaps — and  there's  all 
those  army  chaps  always  on  the  job.  We'll  just 
have  to  be  married,  that's  all  there  is  to  that, 
before  I  leave.' 

"I  was  back  to  the  post  in  time  to  join  a  riding- 
party  after  lunch.  It  was  no  use  my  trying  to 
see  her  alone  riding.  But  after  the  ride  we  slipped 
out  onto  the  ramparts  of  the  fort,  and  there,  the 
pair  of  us  sitting  hand  in  hand  and  a  sentry  a 
dozen  paces  away  trying  not  to  see  and  hear  us, 
I  told  her  of  my  orders  and  then  entered  my  new 
plea.  'All  for  myself,  Doris,'  I  told  her.  By  that 
time  the  sun  was  low  behind  us  and  throwing  our 
two  shadows  onto  where  the  water  of  the  bay 
came  gurgling  up  against  the  walls  of  the  fort, 
and  looking  down  on  our  shadows  from  the  fort 

108 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

walls,  she  said  at  last  she  would  marry  me  before 
I  left,  if  papa  agreed — and  glad  one  minute  and 
sad  the  next,  we  walked  back  in  the  twilight. 

"Colors  had  sounded  when  we  got  back,  and 
the  colonel  was  dressing  for  dinner;  but  after 
dinner  I  took  him  out  for  a  walk.  Three  laps  we 
made  around  the  drill-ground  and  then,  halting 
him  under  the  clump  of  willows  down  by  the 
outer  walls,  I  plumped  it  at  him — what  it  meant 
to  be  away  for  months  and  years  from  your  own 
people. 

"And  he  heard  me  through,  and  said:  'Why, 
that's  part  of  the  hardship,  Richard,  in  both  arms 

of  the  service.    In  my  day,  Richard * 

:  'Pardon,  Colonel,'  I  butted  in,  'pardon  me, 
Colonel,  but  in  your  day  the  army  people  never 
left  the  country.  Even  when  you  were  fighting 
Indians  on  the  frontier,  after  all  it  was  only  the 
frontier  and  never  more  than  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand miles  at  the  most  to  get  back  home.  And 
when  you  were  through  campaigning  and  back 
in  garrison,  your  people  could  come  to  see 
you.  But  twelve  thousand  miles!  It  isn't  as  if 
a  man's  within  telephone  call  then.  And  when 
you're  not  to  see  your  people  for  that  length  of 
time,  there's  danger.' 

:  'Danger?'  He  stiffens  up  and  takes  a  peek 
at  me. 

109 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

"  '  Danger,  yes  sir/  I  said.  '  I've  been  out 
there  in  the  islands,  in  a  tugboat  with  her  en- 
gines broken  down  and  she  drifting  onto  a  beach 
where  four  hundred  squatting  Moros  with  Rem- 
ington rifles  were  waiting  hopefully  for  us  to  come 
ashore.  Four  hundred  of  them  and  five  of  us  all 
told.  But  that's  not  danger,  sir/  I  hurries  on, 
'of  the  kind  to  scare  a  man,  though  it  did  sicken 
me  to  think  I'd  never  see  Doris  again,  and  that 
perhaps  it  would  shock  her  when  she  heard  of  it. 
But  otherwise,  sir,  that's  no  danger.  But  when 
a  young  officer  goes  a  thousand  miles  up  a  Chinese 
river  in  command  of  a  gunboat,  as  I  was  this  last 
time — gone  for  months  on  it — and  being  com- 
mander was  everywhere  received  as  the  represent- 
ative of  a  great  country  by  all  the  governors  and 
topside  mandarins  along  the  route.  And  they 
haven't  our  idea  of  things — a  lot  of  things  that 
seem  wrong  to  us  seem  all  right  to  them.  They 
mean  no  harm.  They  intend  only  to  be  courteous 
and  complimentary,  and  so  they  strew  a  fellow's 
path  with  the  flowers  of  ease  and  pleasure — if  he 
forgets  himself,  there's  danger,  Colonel/  I  said. 
'I  sail  at  eight  in  the  morning,  sir.  I'm  to  be 
gone  I  don't  know  how  long,  perhaps  another  two 
years,  and — Colonel — I  want  a  home  anchor.' 

"He  said  no  word  till  he  had  finished  his  cigar. 
When  he  does  he  drops  it  at  his  feet,  steps  on  it 

no 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

to  put  out  the  light,  and  says:  'A  good  argument 
for  yourself,  Richard,  but  what  of  Doris?' 

:  'Doris  has  probably  done  a  lot  of  thinking  in 
the  matter,  sir.    Why  not  leave  it  to  Doris,  sir?' 

1  'Of  course,'  he  said,  dry  as  powder,  'Doris 
would  be  disinterested  in  this  case!' 
'Then  leave  it  to  her  mother,  sir.' 
'I  see  neither  logic  nor  prudence  in  your 
argument,  Richard,'  he  answers  at  last,  'but  I 
will  leave  it  to  her  mother.'  And  when  he  said 
that,  I  knew  I  had  won;  for,  without  her  ever  tell- 
ing me,  I  knew  her  mother  was  with  us.  If  I  had 
told  him  that,  I  would  only  have  been  telling  what 
he  already  guessed,  as  he  told  me  that  same  night, 
later. 

"Anyway,  after  a  minute  with  Doris  and  her 
mother,  I  jumped  over  to  the  hotel,  and  from  the 
side  of  a  most  billowy  waltz  partner  I  detached 
Shorty  Erroll  to  get  the  ring  and  the  smaller 
stores  for  a  proper  wedding,  and  then  I  went  out 
to  bespeak  my  own  ship's  chaplain.  I  found  him 
lying  in  his  bunk  in  his  pajamas  with  a  History  of 
the  Tunisian  Wars  balanced  on  his  chest  and  a 
wall-light  just  back  of  his  head,  and  he  says: 
'Why  surely,  Dick,'  when  I  told  him,  but  added: 
'Though  that  old  sieve  of  a  Bayport,  I  doubt  will 
you  ever  get  her  as  far  as  Manila,'  after  which, 
carefully  inserting  a  book-mark  into  the  Tunisians, 

in 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

he  glides  into  his  uniform  and  comes  ashore  with 
me. 

"And  without  Doris  even  changing  her  dress 
we  were  married — in  the  colonel's  quarters,  with 
every  officer  and  every  member  of  every  officer's 
family  on  the  reservation — even  the  children — 
standing  by.  And  the  women  said, '  How  distress- 
ing, Mr.  Wickett,  to  have  to  leave  in  the  morning!' 
and  the  men  said,  'Tough  luck,  Dick' — and  be 
sure  I  thought  it  was  tough  luck,  and  it  would 
have  been  tough  luck  only  by  this  time  the 
entire  post  had  got  busy  and  got  word  to  Wash- 
ington, and  at  eleven  o'clock,  while  we  were  still 
at  the  wedding-supper,  word  came  to  delay  the 
sailing  of  the  gunboat  for  twenty-four  hours. 
And  that  was  followed  by  a  telegraphic  order 
next  morning  to  haul  the  Bayport  into  dry  dock 
and  overhaul  her." 

Wickett,  who  had  been  talking  rapidly,  came  to 
a  full  stop,  while  three  bells  were  striking  through- 
out the  fleet. 

"Nine-thirty,"  said  Wickett.  "I  thought  I  saw 
a  steamer's  light  beyond  the  breakwater." 

Carlin  looked  where  he  pointed.  "I  don't,  but 
I  haven't  your  eyes.  How  long  was  the  respite?" 

"In  ten  days  they  had  her  afloat  again.  I 
thanked  my  God-given  luck  for  every  flying  min- 
ute of  those  ten  days." 

112 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

"And  did  she  stay  afloat  long  enough  to  get  to 
Manila  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  She  wasn't  half  bad.  Needed  a  little 
nursing  in  heavy  weather,  but  outside  of  that  she 
wasn't  hopeless  at  all." 

"And  what  of  Mrs.  Wickett?" 

"She  was  to  come  to  me  just  as  soon  as  I  cabled 
where  in  the  East  the  gunboat  would  fetch  up  for 
any  sort  of  a  stay.  But  I  was  never  in  one  spot 
for  long.  We  cruised  from  Vladivostok  to  Manila 
and  back  again,  never  more  than  a  week  in  any 
one  place.  Even  so,  as  soon  as  I'd  saved  enough 
out  of  my  ensign's  pay,  she  was  to  come — and  she 
would  have — to  meet  me;  but  before  enough 
months  of  saving  had  passed  she  wrote  me.  There 
was  a  baby  coming,  and  then  I  wouldn't  let  her 
come.  I  did  not  want  her  jumping  from  port  to 
port  in  foreign  waters  before  the  baby  was  born, 
and  she  would  soon  be  needing  every  cent  of  my 
ensign's  pay  that  I  could  save. 

"And  the  months  rolled  around  and  the  cable 
came  which  told  that  the  baby  had  come,  and 
that  Doris  and  everything  was  fine;  and  I  was  as 
happy  as  a  man  could  be  with  a  wife  and  boy  he 
was  crazy  to  see,  but  couldn't.  She  wanted  to 
come  out  and  join  me  right  away,  but  I  said  no. 

"Well,  when  the  baby  was  big  enough  to  stand 
travel  she  was  coming,  anyway,  she  wrote;  but  I 

113 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

reminded  her  that  before  a  great  while  now  I 
ought  to  be  on  my  way  home.  And  one  day  in 
the  China  Seas  I  saw  the  sun  between  us  and  the 
shore  setting  under  a  thousand  golden  lakes  and 
pools  and  purple  pillars,  and  a  home-bound  pen- 
nant of  a  full  cable's  length  whipping  the  breeze 
in  our  smoke  astern." 

Wickett  paused,  and  resumed:  "That  was  a 
great  night.  It  was  two  years  and  three  months 
since  I'd  left  Bayport.  The  first  thing  I  did  in 
the  morning  after  turning  out,  and  for  every 
morning  thereafter,  was  to  step  to  the  calendar  on 
the  wall  of  my  room  and  block  out  that  day's 
date  with  a  fat  blue-leaded  pencil  I'd  got  from 
the  paymaster  for  that  purpose  alone,  and  then, 
estimating  the  run  on  the  chief  engineer's  dope, 
count  how  many  days  were  left." 

Wickett  was  silent.  He  remained  silent  so  long 
that  Carlin  thought  that  that  must  be  the  end, 
abrupt  though  it  was,  to  the  story.  But  it  was  not 
that.  Wickett  was  pointing  across  the  bay. 

"See,  Carlin — the  flag-ship  of  the  second  squad- 
ron has  just  sent  out  an  order  for  its  first  divi- 
sion to  prepare  for  an  emergency  signal  drill.  And 
the  first  division  are  to  have  a  torpedo  drill  at 
the  same  time.  Wait — in  half  a  minute  it  will  be 
on.  There — look!" 

From  the  mastheads  the  red  and  white  Ardois 
114 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

lights  were  winking  even  as  the  illuminated  arms 
of  the  semaphores  were  wigwagging  jerky  mes- 
sages from  bridge  to  bridge;  on  shore,  on  the 
water,  on  the  clouds,  the  great  search-lights  swept 
and  crossed  endlessly.  It  was  dazzling.  Sud- 
denly it  ceased.  "Oh-h!"  protested  Carlin. 

"Life  is  just  like  that,  isn't  it?"  said  Wickett; 
"all  light  and  play  and  color  for  a  spell,  and  then 
— pff—  lights  out." 

"Maybe,"  admitted  Carlin,  "but  don't  impede 
the  speed  of  the  story.  Your  ship  was  racing  for 
home." 

"Our  orders  were  to  proceed  by  way  of  Suez 
and  to  rendezvous  with  the  battle-fleet  at  Guan- 
tanamo, Cuba.  We  got  into  Guantanamo  the 
day  before  the  Missalama  arrived  from  the  North. 
The  Missalama  had  orders  to  proceed  to  the  West 
Coast.  Half  a  dozen  of  the  officers  already  in 
Guantanamo  were  ordered  to  her.  I  was  one  of 
them." 

"Good  night!     But  that  was  a  jolt!" 
"That's  what  it  was.    But  that's  the  service." 
"And  couldn't  you  do  anything  about  it?" 
"What  could  I  do?     There  were  my  orders. 
A  couple  of  the  fellows  came  as  near  to  being 
politicians  then  as  ever  they  did  in  their  lives. 
They    tried    to    reach    people    in    Washington — 
bureau  chiefs,  senators,  influential  congressmen — 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

to  have  me  detached  and  ordered  home.  But  next 
day  was  a  holiday  and  the  day  after  was  Sunday, 
and  the  ship  had  to  sail  by  Sunday.  And  she  did, 
and  I  with  her." 

"And  how  do  you  account  for  your  being 
shunted  off  like  that?  Somebody  have  it  in  for 
you?" 

"No,  no — not  that.  Simply  the  politicians. 
I  don't  suppose  the  service  will  ever  be  free  of  the 
near-politicians.  The  navy  has  them — fellows 
who  are  not  good  enough  officers  to  depend  upon 
themselves  alone,  and  not  good  enough  politicians 
to  go  in  for  politics  altogether.  Somebody  with  a 
good  shore  billet  somewhere  was  probably  due  for 
sea-duty,  and  not  wanting  to  let  go  of  a  good 
thing,  and  having  the  pull,  somebody  else  went  in- 
stead. And  somebody  else  for  that  somebody 
else,  and  somebody  else  again,  and  so  on  till  at 
last  the  somebody  else  who  could  be  made  to 
serve  a  turn  happened  to  be  me. 

:  'Hard  luck,  Dickie,'  said  the  ward-room  mess. 
'But  cheer  up — in  three  months  you'll  see  the 
Golden  Gate,  and  by  then  you'll  be  ready  for  a 
little  duty  on  your  home  coast.  Then  your  lieu- 
tenant's straps  and  shore  duty,  and  your  wife  and 
baby  to  yourself  for  a  while.'  I  had  that  thought 
to  cheer  me  through  the  night-watches  around 
South  America,  but  at  Callao  we  got  orders  to 

116 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

proceed  to  Manila,  and  after  six  months  out  that 
way  it  was  off  to  the  Island  of  Guam,  and  from 
there  to  make  a  survey  of  some  islands  in  the 
South  Sea.  No  way  I  could  fix  it  could  I  tell  my 
wife  to  come  and  meet  me  at  any  certain  place. 

"But  no  task  is  endless.  We  were  homeward 
bound  at  last.  I  remember  how  I  used  to  say  at 
mess  that  I  was  never  going  to  believe  I  was  home, 
till  with  my  own  eyes  I  saw  the  anchor  splash  in 
a  home  port.  But  there  it  was  now — the  anchor 
actually  splashing  in  Bayport.  I  had  the  bridge 
making  port,  and  I  remember  what  a  look  I  took 
around  me  before  I  turned  the  deck  over  to  the 
executive.  From  the  bridge,  with  a  long  glass, 
I  could  see  above  the  tree  tops  the  roof  of  the 
colonel's  old  quarters.  I  pictured  him  on  the 
veranda  below  with  the  baby  and  Doris  waiting 
for  me.  Fd  sent  a  wireless  ahead  for  Doris  not 
to  risk  herself  or  that  baby  out  in  the  bay  with  a 
fleet  of  battle-ships  coming  to  anchor.  And  the 
baby!  I  dreamed  of  him  reaching  up  his  little 
hands  and  calling,  'Papa,  papa!'  when  he  saw  me. 

"Well,  everything  was  shipshape.  We  were 
safe  to  moorings  and  I  was  relieved  of  the  deck 
and  about  to  step  off*  the  bridge  when  the  word 
was  passed  that  somebody  was  waiting  to  see  me 
in  the  ward-room.  And  with  no  more  than  that 
— 'Somebody  to  see  you,  sir' — I  knew  who  it 

117 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

was.  The  fort  boat  had  come  alongside  and 
people  had  come  aboard — officers'  wives  and 
families,  I  knew,  but  not  just  who,  because  the 
boat  had  unloaded  aft  while  I  was  on  the  bridge 
forward.  But  I  knew. 

"The  messenger  smiled  when  he  told  me.  The 
men  along  the  deck  smiled  when  they  saw  me 
hurrying  aft.  The  marines  on  the  half-deck 
smiled  as  I  flew  by  them.  Everybody  aboard 
knew  by  this  time  of  my  five  years  from  home  and 
the  little  baby  waiting.  Good  old  Doctor  and 
Pay,  going  up  to  take  the  air  on  the  quarter-deck, 
said:  'Hurry,  Dick,  hurry!'  Hurry?  I  was  ta- 
king the  ladders  in  single  leaps.  At  the  foot  of  the 
last  one,  in  the  passageway  leading  to  the  ward- 
room, I  all  but  bowled  over  a  little  fellow  who  was 
looking  up  the  ladder  like  he  was  expecting  some- 
body. I  picked  him  up  and  stood  him  on  his 
feet  again.  'Hi,  little  man!'  I  remember  saying, 
and  thinking  what  a  fine  little  fellow  he  was,  but 
no  more  than  that,  I  was  in  such  a  hurry. 

"And  into  the  ward-room,  and  everybody  in 
the  ward-room  that  wasn't  occupied  with  some  of 
his  own  was  smiling  and  pointing  a  finger  to 
where,  in  the  door  of  my  stateroom,  Doris  was 
waiting  for  me.  And  I  dove  through  the  bulk- 
head door,  leaped  the  length  of  the  ward-room 
country,  and  took  her  in  my  arms.  For  a  minute, 

118 


In  the  Anchor  Watch 

five  minutes,  ten  minutes — just  how  long  I  don't 
know — but  I  held  her  and  patted  her  and  dried 
her  tears. 

"  'And  where's  little  Dick?'  I  asked  at  last. 

"  'Why,  that  was  Dick  you  stood  on  his  feet 
in  the  passageway,'  she  said,  and  laughed  to  think 
I  didn't  know  him.  'But  that's  because  he  looks 
so  much  like  you  and  not  me.  No  man  knows 
what  he  looks  like  himself,'  she  said,  and  ran  and 
got  Dick,  and  brought  him  to  me,  and  said:  'Dick, 
here's  your  papa.'  And  Dick  looked  at  me  and  he 
said:  'No,  mama,  that  is  not  my  papa.  My  papa 
has  no  legs,'  just  as  I  was  going  to  fold  him  in  my 
arms  and  hug  him  to  death. 

"And — will  you  still  think  I  was  only  a  kid? 
— I  stepped  into  my  room  and  drew  the  curtains, 
and  sat  down  by  my  bunk  and  cried.  After  five 
years !  And  Doris  came  in,  and  perhaps  she  wanted 
to  cry,  too,  but  she  didn't.  She  drew  a  photo- 
graph from  her  bosom  and  showed  it  to  me.  It 
was  the  only  one  of  me  that  ever  suited  her,  and 
it  happened  to  be  only  a  head  and  shoulders,  and 
every  day  since  the  baby  was  old  enough  she  had 
told  him:  'That's  your  papa,  dear,  and  some  day 
he'll  come  home  in  a  great  big  war-ship  with  guns 
and  guns,  and  then  you'll  see.'  And  the  poor 
little  kid,  four  years  and  three  months  old,  had 
never  seen  any  legs  on  the  man  in  the  photo- 

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In  the  Anchor  Watch 

graph;  but  he  had  seen  his  mother  cry  almost 
every  time  she  looked  at  it,  and  he  supposed 
that  was  why  she  cried — because  papa  had  no 
legs.  And  so  the  poor  kid  was  waiting  to  see  a 
man  with  no  legs." 

Wickett  was  silent.  Carlin  asked  no  more 
questions.  In  silence  he,  too,  studied  what  was 
left  of  the  night-life  of  the  fleet.  Only  the  white 
anchor-lights  of  the  motionless  battle-ships,  the 
colored  side-lights  of  the  chugging  steam-launches, 
were  now  left. 

Carlin  pointed  out  to  Wickett  a  green  light 
coming  rapidly  in  from  sea.  "Another  battle- 
ship,  Wickett?" 

Wickett  shook  his  head.  "No.  I've  been 
watching  her.  It's  the  Clermont.  She's  due. 
And  I'm  half  afraid  to  go  and  board  her." 

"Why?" 

"If  my  wife's  aboard,  she'll  have  with  her  a 
fifteen-months-old  daughter  that  I  have  never 
seen.  Suppose  she,  too,  greets  me  with —  She's 
swinging  back — to  her  anchorage — look." 

The  green  light  rolled  in  a  great  half-circle  in- 
shore, and  disappeared.  A  red  light  curved  into 
sight. 

Wickett  jumped  up.  "Come  on,  Carlin,  I'll 
get  permission  to  leave  the  ship.  We'll  be  there 
before  she  lowers  the  port  ladder." 

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In  the  Anchor  Watch 

"No,  but  drop  me  at  the  landing  on  the  way 
and  I'll  see  you  in  the  morning  at  the  hotel. 
How's  that?" 

Carlin  saw  him  before  the  morning.  He  was 
in  the  lobby  of  the  hotel  when  Wickett  with  his 
wife,  a  fine  big  boy,  and  a  lovely  little  baby  girl, 
got  out  of  the  hotel  'bus.  The  boy  was  clinging  to 
Wickett's  hand,  all  the  while  talking  rapturously 
of  the  trip  of  the  Clermont.  With  his  free  arm 
Wickett  was  carrying  the  baby,  which  was  mur- 
muring, "Papa,  papa,  papa!" 

Carlin  would  have  known  Mrs.  Wickett  with- 
out an  introduction  or  the  presence  of  the  boy 
and  the  baby.  Merely  from  the  way  she  looked  at 
Wickett  he  knew  that  this  was  the  girl  who  had 
gone  sailing  with  him  in  the  dawn  and  become 
engaged  before  breakfast. 

"It's  all  right,"  smiled  Wickett,  with  his  cheek 
against  the  baby's.  "This  one  can't  seem  to 
say  anything  but  papa!" 

Carlin  nodded,  and  whispered:  "And  you 
couldn't  afford  it?" 

Wickett  grinned.  "We  couldn't;  but  we  did. 
We  always  do." 

"And  how  about  the  service — going  to  quit 
it?" 

Wickett  stared  at  Carlin.    "Quit  the  service!" 

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In  the  Anchor  Watch 

Suddenly  he  recalled,  and  laughed,  and  whispered: 
"Sh-h — !  I'm  due  for  a  year  and  a  half  of  shore 
duty.  But  don't  mind  if  I  hurry  along,  will  you? 
I  got  to  get  these  children  to  bed." 

"Go  on — hurry — and  good  night,"  said  Car- 
lin.  "Good  night,  Mrs.  Wickett,"  and  handed 
her  into  the  elevator;  and  smoked  two  thoughtful 
cigars  on  the  veranda  and  then  went  inside  and 
sat  down  and  wrote  a  long  letter  on  the  subject 
of  the  navy  as  a  profession  to  the  mother  of  a 
young  lad  back  home. 

There  was  much  detail,  and  then: 

As  to  being  away  from  home  for  long  periods:  Married 
officers  tell  me  that  it  is  hard  at  times.  But  judging  by  what 
I  saw  awhile  ago  here,  the  home-coming  almost  offsets  the 
long  absences.  The  kind  of  a  woman  they  marry  probably 
makes  a  lot  of  difference.  I'd  say,  let  him  go  if  he  wants  to. 
Good  night. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

SAM. 


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HEARING  the  boys  in  the  office  talking  of  a 
lecture  at  the  Sailor's  Haven  a  few  nights 
ago  was  what  set  me  thinking  to-day.  It  was  on 
superstition,  and  the  speaker  digressed  to  expend 
ten  minutes,  as  he  put  it,  on  sailors.  A  most 
superstitious  lot,  sailors. 

He  had  a  lot  of  fun  with  the  sailors,  and  a 
crowd  of  old  seafaring  men  sat  there  and  let 
him,  until  a  boss  stevedore  from  our  wharf  who'd 
been  one  time  mate  of  a  coaster,  with  the  pre- 
liminary contribution  that  this  was  sure  the  wisest 
party  he'd  listened  to  in  all  o'  seven  years,  rose 
to  inquire  of  the  gentleman  how  long  he'd  been 
to  sea. 

Well,  he  had  been  to  sea  quite  a  little.  Twice 
to  Europe  and  return,  once  to  Panama  and  return, 
once  to  Jamaica  in  the  West  Indies  and 

" — return?"  finishes  our  stevedore.  "Sure 
you  returned  each  time?  5N'  in  what  sortivver 
craft  'd  you  sail  to  them  places — and  return — in?" 

"Why,  steamers,"  answers  the  lecturer. 


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"Passinjer?" 

"Passenger?    Certainly." 

"Excuse  me!"  says  our  stevedore.  "I  oughter 
known  better.  O'  course,  you  know  all  about 
sailors,"  and  sits  down. 

The  lecturer  was  all  right.  He  was  doing  the 
best  he  knew,  with  the  finest  and  fattest  of  words 
he  could  pick  out,  to  make  things  clearer  to  his 
audience;  and  his  audience,  appreciating  that, 
let  him  run  on,  until  he  said  that  there  was  not 
one  mysterious  thing  which  had  ever  happened 
that  could  fail  to  be  proved  very  ordinary  by 
mathematical,  or  historical,  or  logical,  or  physical, 
or  some  other  "cal"  deduction;  which  bounced 
our  watch-dog  out  of  his  seat  again. 

"How  d'you  'count/'  he  growls,  "for  th'  Orion 


Well-1,  he  could  not  account  for  it,  for  the  sim- 
ple and  overwhelmingly  conclusive  reason  that, 
previous  to  that  very  moment,  he  had  never 
heard  of  the  ships  named. 

"Then  s'pose  you  hear  'f  'em  now,"  says  our 
stevedore,  and  starts  in  and  delivers  the  lec- 
turer a  lecture  on  the  Orion  and  Sirius>  and  it 
wound  up  the  show;  for  when  the  lecturer  started 
to  butt  in,  all  the  old  barnacles,  who  before  this 
had  been  clinging  warily  to  the  edge  of  their 
seats,  now  rose  up  and  rallied  around  our  steve- 

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dore  to  finish  his  story,  which  he  did;  and  the  old 
fellows,  on  leaving  the  hall,  said  that  the  credit  of 
the  proceeds  for  the  Sailor's  Haven  fund,  for  that 
night,  anyway,  ought  to  go  as  much  to  their  old 
college  chum  from  the  coal  wharf  as  to  any  im- 
ported lecturer  with  his  deckload  of  lantern  slides. 
But  our  stevedore  didn't  tell  all  there  was  of 
the  Orion  and  the  Sirius.  The  lecturer  went  home 
thinking  he  had  been  told  all  about  it,  but  he 
hadn't.  Here  it  is  as  it  was. 


In  the  fleet  of  big  coal  schooners,  which  at  this 
time  were  running  from  the  middle  Atlantic  ports 
to  Boston,  the  twin  five-masters,  the  Orion  and 
the  Sirius,  were  notable. 

They  were  twins  in  everything:  built  from  the 
one  set  of  moulds  in  the  one  yard  at  the  one  time, 
launched  together,  rigged  together,  sailed  on  their 
maiden  trips  together,  and  were  brought  home 
with  their  first  cargoes  of  coal  together  by  two 
masters  who  were  almost  as  twinlike  to  look  at 
as  their  vessels. 

It  was  the  history  of  these  two  big  schooners, 
that  they  seemed  always  to  be  wanting  to  get  to- 
gether. Their  crews  used  to  say  of  them  that  if 
left  anchored  at  all  near  each  other  in  the  stream, 

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they  would  start  right  away  to  swing  toward  each 
other.  Even  if  it  was  slack  water  they  would. 
Yes,  sir. 

I  can't  speak  from  personal  knowledge  of  that 
tide-swinging  trick,  but  I  do  know  that  I  saw  them 
a  few  hours  after  they  had  twice  smashed  into 
each  other — once  under  sail  off  the  Capes  and  once 
in  tow  up  Boston  Harbor;  and  it  was  not  to  be 
doubted  that  in  both  cases  they  had  more  than 
drifted  into  each  other.  And  of  their  near-col- 
lisions !  A  day's  loaf  along  the  water-front  would 
yield  gossip  of  a  dozen  or  more. 

Now,  these  next  few  lines  are  from  out  of  the 
sailors'  book  of  gossip  of  mysterious  happenings 
at  sea;  and  it  is  true  that  the  more  sailorly  the 
gossip,  the  more  likely  will  it  be  to  try  to  account 
for  unusual  accidents  at  sea  in  a  natural  way; 
and  the  most  usual  reason  given  is  inefficiency — 
lack  of  seamanship.  As  to  that,  it  is  true  that 
lack  of  seamanship  or  of  sea  instinct  has  accounted 
for  many  calamities  at  sea,  and  the  same  lack 
would  probably  account  for  many  another  not  so 
set  down  on  the  public  tablets;  but  lack  of  sea- 
manship won't  account  for  all  the  queer  happen- 
ings at  sea.  Every  now  and  then  comes  a  ship 
which  no  earthly  power  seems  able  to  keep  up 
with.  From  out  of  our  superior  shore  knowledge 
we  may  deduce  that  the  builder  or  designer  was 

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in  fault,  that  there  must  have  been  an  asymmetry 
in  her  hull,  or  that  her  rigging  lacked  balance,  such 
defects  tending  to  render  her  uncontrollable  under 
certain  conditions.  Maybe;  but  there  she  is, 
as  she  is,  with  the  malign  fates  seeming  to  be 
working  double  tides  to  get  her. 

"Hoodoo  ships,"  sailors  term  such,  and  "Koo- 
doos, both  of  'em,"  the  crews  of  the  collier  fleet 
early  labelled  the  Orion  and  the  Sirius.  Yes,  sir. 
And  some  day  the  pair  of  them  were  going  up — 
or  down — in  a  whirl  of  glory.  If  only  they  would 
smash  only  each  other,  and  not  go  to  putting 
poor  innocent  outsiders  out  of  commission  when 
they  did  go! — that  was  all  they'd  ask  of  them. 

The  master  of  the  Orion  was  Oliver  Sickles;  of 
the  Sirius,  Norman  Sickles;  and  they  were  from 
the  same  little  hamlet  in  that  Cape  Shore  region 
whence  come  so  many  capable  sailormen.  Each 
was  named  for  his  father,  and  their  fathers  were 
brothers  who  hated  each  other  and  brought  up 
their  children  to  hate  each  other. 

It  was  curious  to  see  them — two  master  mar- 
iners commanding  sister  ships  for  the  same  owners 
— passing  each  other  on  the  wharf,  brushing 
elbows  in  the  office,  putting  to  sea  time  and  time 
together,  sailing,  again  and  again,  side  by  side  for 
days  together,  and  yet  never  seeming  to  see  each 
other.  Indifference  was  the  word;  but  if  by  any 

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chance  a  third  person  referred  to  one  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  other  in  anything  like  complimentary 
terms,  that  third  person  was  soon  let  to  know 
that  he  wasn't  making  any  hit  with  whichever 
Captain  Sickles  it  was  who  had  to  listen.  If  it 
was  Norman  of  the  Sirius,  he  would  shift  his  feet 
and  start  to  stare  intently  at  the  ceiling  or  the 
sky;  if  it  was  Oliver  of  the  Orion,  with  a  snarl 
of  disgust  he  would  get  up  and  walk  off. 

I  had  heard  a  lot  of  the  Sickles  cousins,  but  had 
never  had  more  than  a  hailing  acquaintance  with 
either  of  them,  until  this  early  fall  when  my  firm 
chartered,  among  others,  the  Orion  and  the  Sirius, 
and  sent  me  down  to  Newport  News  to  see  that 
they  lost  no  time  in  loading  and  getting  out.  It 
was  the  time  of  a  threatened  coal  famine  in  New 
England,  with  coal  freights  up  to  two  dollars  a 
ton,  and  my  firm  chartering  everything  they  could 
get  hold  of  to  take  the  coal  from  the  railroads  at 
Newport  News  and  rush  it  east. 

In  our  two  new  schooner  captains,  Norman  and 
Oliver  Sickles,  I  found,  when  I  came  to  have  deal- 
ings with  them,  a  pair  who  knew  their  business. 
Implacable  toward  each  other  they  surely  were, 
but  so  long  as  their  feelings  weren't  delaying  their 
sailing  days,  that  was  their  own  business.  Tall, 
broad,  powerful  chaps  they  both  were,  twenty- 
eight  or  thirty  years  of  age  to  look  at,  slow  in 

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thought,  heavy  in  action,  but  competent  sailor- 
men  always.  I  had  no  need  to  know  their  rec- 
ords, nor  to  talk  with  them  too  many  hours,  to 
find  that  out.  Not  much  about  a  schooner,  be 
she  two  or  five  master,  nor  much  about  the  North 
Atlantic  coast,  that  they  didn't  know. 

I  had  been  three  months  in  Newport  News, 
Christmas  was  at  hand,  and  the  railroad  people 
were  telling  me  that  they  would  have  no  more 
coal  for  my  firm  until  after  New  Year's.  There 
were  twenty  thousand  tons  not  yet  gone;  but  if 
my  four  four-master  schooners  could  sail  next 
morning,  and  the  five-masters,  Orion  and  Sirius, 
get  away  the  morning  after,  that  twenty  thousand 
tons  would  be  cleaned  up. 

I  hunted  up  the  Captain  Sickles  of  the  Sirius 
and  put  the  question  to  him:  "Captain  Norman, 
if  I  can  get  you  loaded  and  cleared  by  the  morn- 
ing after  to-morrow,  what's  the  chance  of  your 
making  Boston  by  Christmas?"  And  he  an- 
swered, after  some  thought:  "It's  a  westerly 
wind  with  a  medium  glass  to-day.  It  ought  to 
hang  on  westerly  and  dry  for  another  four  or  five 
days.  Clear  me  by  the  morning  after  to-morrow, 
and  I'll  lay  the  Sirius  to  anchor  in  Boston 
Harbor  Christmas  Eve,  or" — he  was  a  man  of 
serious  ways,  and  spoke  most  seriously  now — "or 
I'll  give  you  a  good  reason  why." 


Cross  Courses 

I  hunted  up  Captain  Oliver  Sickles  of  the  Orion, 
and  I  found  him  having  a  drink  in  the  bar  of  the 
Tidewater  Cafe.  He  looked  as  if  he'd  welcome 
a  quarrel,  but  that  was  nothing  strange  in  him. 
I  put  the  same  question  to  him  that  I  had  put  to 
his  cousin,  and  the  answer  came  in  almost  the 
same  words  as  to  the  medium  glass  and  the 
westerly  wind,  but  at  that  point  he  looked  sharply 
at  me. 

"And  when  does  the  Sirius  sail?"  he  asked. 

"The  morning  after  to-morrow." 

"And" — suspiciously — "who  first  that  morn- 
ing, the  Sirius  or  me?" 

"I  don't  know.  You'll  be  loaded  and  cleared 
together — it's  for  yourselves  to  say  who  sails 
first." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

Captain  Oliver  had  a  hectoring  way  about  him 
which  used  to  make  me  promise  myself  that  some 
day,  after  he'd  done  hauling  coal  for  my  outfit, 
I'd  tell  him  what  I  thought  of  him.  "What  did 
who  say?"  I  asked  him  now. 

"Warn't  you  talkin'  to  my  cousin  awhile  ago 
about  the  same  thing?" 

"I  was,  though  I  don't  remember  telling  you 
about  it." 

"H-m,"  he  sneered,  "I  thought  so.  Y5  always 
go  to  him  first." 

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"Yes,  I  do!"  I  snapped  at  him.  "And  why? 
Because  he  knows  his  mind.  And  he's  a  man  to 
give  an  answer  without  using  up  an  afternoon 
talking  about  it.  He  said  he'd  have  the  Sirius 
to  anchor  in  Boston  Harbor  by  Christmas  Eve  or 
give  me  a  good  reason  why." 

"He  did,  did  he?  Then  set  this  down  in  your 
log" — with  the  end  of  a  prodigiously  thick  fore- 
finger he  was  tapping  the  bar  as  he  said  it: — "The 
Orion  will  be  laying  to  anchor  in  Boston  Harbor 
by  Christmas  Eve  or  there'll  be  a  damn  good  rea- 
son why." 

Right  here  I  should  say  that  there  was  more 
than  a  rivalry  of  craftsmanship  between  the  Sick- 
les cousins.  Once,  thinking  it  was  the  Sirius, 
Norman  Sickles's  sweetheart,  a  very  pretty  and  a 
very  good  girl,  had  gone  aboard  the  Orion  as  it 
lay  in  Boston  Harbor.  Oliver  at  once  locked  her 
in  the  cabin,  put  to  sea,  and  carried  her  to  Phila- 
delphia, where,  urged  by  her  mother,  and  to  save 
her  good  name  as  she  thought,  she  married  Oliver. 
But  that  her  heart  was  still  with  Norman  was  cur- 
rent gossip  in  the  fleet. 

Because  he  had  lately  heard  that  I  had  been 
free-spoken  in  my  comment  on  that  exploit  was 
why  Captain  Oliver  now — his  forefinger  tapping 
the  bar  and  he  eying  me  from  under  his  hat- 
brim — added  to  his  "good  reason"  the  word  that, 

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no  matter  what  my  firm  or  any  other  firm 
thought  of  this  or  that,  which  warn't  none  o' 
their  business  anyway,  he  wanted  'em  all  to  un- 
derstand that  he  was  as  capable  of  getting  a 
quick  passage  out  of  a  vessel  as  any  Norman 
Sickles  that  ever  walked;  which  gave  me  a  fine 
chance  to  say:  "Well,  the  place  to  prove  that  is 
at  sea,  and  not  in  a  barroom  ashore." 

Not  very  delicate — no;  but  it  sent  him  almost 
on  the  run  down  aboard  his  vessel,  to  clear  his 
decks  for  loading,  which  was  mostly  what  I  was 
after. 

And  I  let  it  leak  out — the  answer  of  the  two 
cousins  about  being  in  Boston  before  Christmas. 
A  little  rivalry  of  that  kind  doesn't  do  any  harm; 
and  I  wanted  to  walk  into  the  office  on  Christ- 
mas eve  and  say,  "The  last  of  that  Newport  News 
coal  is  lying  out  there  in  the  stream  waiting  to 
dock,"  and  then  go  home,  even  as  many  of  the 
crews  would  want  to  go  home,  with  an  easy  con- 
science for  a  Christmas  holiday. 

II 

People  in  my  line  used  to  say  that  I  was  pretty 
young  for  my  job,  and  some  of  them  to  warn  me 
about  allowing  the  underlings  to  get  familiar  with 
me.  Well,  perhaps  I  was  too  young  for  my  job, 

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or  for  any  other  job  of  any  account;  but  as  to  the 
other  charge  I  never  noticed  anybody  getting 
over-familiar  with  me.  Friendly,  yes;  but  even 
the  head  of  the  firm  himself  couldn't  get  over- 
familiar  unless  I  let  him. 

Part  of  my  job,  as  I  figured  it,  was  to  know 
freights  and  ships  and  the  masters  of  ships;  and 
where  it  hurt  the  firm's  interests  if  I  knew  the 
crews  as  well,  I  couldn't  see.  Some  would  tell 
me  that  the  further  away  I  kept  from  them  the 
more  highly  they  would  respect  me,  and  the  more 
highly  they  respected  me  the  more  they  would  do 
for  me,  which  would  have  listened  well  if  their 
vessels  were  getting  in  and  out  of  loading  ports 
any  faster  than  mine  did;  but  nobody  noticed 
that  they  were. 

And  beyond  that:  I  could  never  see  where  a 
little  friendliness  to  anybody  did  any  harm.  I 
may  have  been  too  young  for  my  job,  but  I  wasn't 
too  young  to  know  that  the  world  is  alive  with 
unassuming  little  fellows  who  are  full  to  the 
hatches  with  knowledge  of  one  kind  or  another 
that  they  will  cheerfully  unload  to  anybody  who 
has  time  for  them.  Not  that  I  want  anybody  to 
think  I  am  so  long-headed  or  forehanded  a  chap 
as  to  spend  time  only  with  people  who  could  tell 
me  things!  I  didn't  do  any  thinking  about  it  one 
way  or  the  other.  Any  man  that  had  time  for 
me,  I  had  time  for  him. 

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I  had  time  for  Drislane.  He  was  one  of  the 
crew  of  the  Sirius,  and  I  had  been  seeing  quite  a 
little  of  him  while  I  was  in  Newport  News  this 
fall  on  the  coal.  The  Sirius  would  load,  sail,  and 
return;  load,  sail,  and  return;  and  between  trips 
Drislane  and  I  would  have  sessions. 

Td  seen  something  of  Drislane  before  this  in 
Boston.  His  mail  used  to  come  addressed  to  our 
Boston  office,  where  everybody  knew  that  twice 
a  year,  toward  the  end  of  June  and  just  before 
Christmas,  a  check  would  come  to  him  from  his 
home  in  the  West.  When  he  came  up  from  the 
vessel  after  a  trip  and  found  that  home  envelope 
awaiting  him,  he  would  step  around  to  his  room, 
clean  up,  and  in  his  shore-going  suit  of  clothes 
come  back,  have  us  cash  his  check,  and  then,  ac- 
cording to  our  office  force,  it  was — Good  night! 
for  two  weeks. 

The  check,  always  the  same — for  twelve  hun- 
dred dollars — would  have  given  him  a  good  two 
weeks'  whirl  in  highly-rated,  expensive  places,  if 
he  cared  for  splurge,  but  I  guess  he  never  was  in- 
fluenced much  by  regulation  ratings.  Any  place 
he  liked  the  looks  of  would  do  for  him — and  some 
perhaps  that  he  didn't  like  the  looks  of. 

It  was  no  use  to  try  to  tell  the  office  force  that 
Drislane  hadn't  a  weak  joint  somewhere.  Man, 
they  knew!  and  holding  no  berths  for  the  purely 
spiritual,  with  but  one  suspicious  and  unexplained 

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action  to  work  from,  would  build  you  up  a  char- 
acter of  any  depth  of  depravity  you  were  pleased 
to  have.  Three  guesses,  no  more,  was  all  they 
needed  for  Drislane's  case.  It  was  rum,  or  women, 
or  rum  and  women.  If  neither,  then  there  was  no 
hope  for  him  at  all — he  was  insane. 

And  certainly  his  judgment  in  women  was 
something  fierce.  I'm  setting  down  now  the  dic- 
tion, as  well  as  the  judgment,  of  the  office  force; 
this  last  judgment  being  based  on  the  evidence  of 
the  two  illuminated  occasions  when  he  had  come 
in  to  cash  his  check,  and  each  time  brought  with 
him  a  young  woman.  Naturally,  on  his  departure, 
the  lads  in  the  office  had  a  word  to  say.  The  only 
way  they  could  account  for  his  selections — well, 
they  couldn't  account  for  them.  It  must  be  a 
genius  he  had — something  was  born  with  him — to 
pick  the  homely  ones. 

There  wasn't  the  least  evidence  to  show  that 
there  was  anything  wrong  in  these  companion- 
ships of  his.  My  notion  of  it  was — he  would  never 
speak  of  it — that  he  picked  up  any  kind  of  people 
in  any  kind  of  place,  and  made  them  as  happy  as 
he  could  while  his  money  lasted.  He  certainly 
never  went  off  for  any  two  weeks'  jamboree. 
Whatever  his  experiences  were,  they  seemed  to 
leave  him  in  good  shape  physically,  anyway.  At 
least  the  marks  of  too  many  lonesome  hours 

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seemed  to  be  ironed  out  of  his  face  when  he  came 
back. 

The  man  was  so  everlastingly  unconscious  that 
he  was  different  from  anybody  else  that  it  was  re- 
freshing. But  there  was  more  than  that — to  me, 
at  least.  I  always  looked  on  him  as  a  touchstone, 
one  of  those  men  by  whom  you  may  gauge  other 
men.  Drislane  was  sensitized  to  crooks.  He 
had  only  to  stand  in  the  same  room  with  them  to 
get  their  moral  pictures.  If  I  heard  of  Drislane 
distrusting  a  man  or  of  a  man  disliking  Drislane, 
I  would  at  once  set  that  man  down,  knowing 
nothing  of  the  man,  as  having  a  rotten  spot  in 
him  somewhere. 

That  was  the  Drislane  who  met  me  this  night 
before  the  Sirius  and  the  Orion  were  to  sail  for 
their  last  coal  trip  of  the  year,  and  asked  me  to 
have  supper  with  him.  And  he  took  me  to  that 
same  place  where  I'd  had  the  words  with  Cap- 
tain Oliver  Sickles  the  day  before — that  is,  the 
Tidewater  Cafe — where  was  a  drinking  bar  in 
front  and  a  restaurant  in  back,  a  common  enough 
sort  of  place,  where  women  of  the  street  could — 
and  did — bring  drunken  sailors,  and  they  served 
you  pie  with  a  knife. 

I  speak  of  that  item  of  serving  pie  with  a  knife, 
not  by  way  of  poking  fun  at  anybody;  but  here 
was  a  man  five  years  away  from  his  inland  hills, 

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for  a  whole  year  owner  of  an  eating-place  in  a 
good-sized  seaport  city,  and  had  not  yet  noticed 
that  some  people  ate  pie  without  a  knife.  By  it 
I  fancied  I  could  gauge  the  man's  social  inherit- 
ance. And  there  were  other  customs  of  the  place 
in  keeping  with  the  pie  and  knife.  I  used  to  specu- 
late on  what  primitive  sort  of  an  upbringing  he 
had  that  he  was  so  slow  to  adopt  the  most  ordi- 
nary civilized  customs. 

Drislane  seemed  to  be  at  home  in  the  place. 
So  was  I  for  that  matter;  by  which  I  mean  I  felt 
safe  enough.  Several  times  before  this,  in  my 
inquisitive  ramblings  about  the  port,  I  had  looked 
in  there.  So  far  as  that  goes,  there  are  not  many 
places  where  they  bother  a  man  who  doesn't 
bother  them,  always  excepting,  of  course,  that  he 
doesn't  get  drunk  and  disorderly,  and  isn't  nat- 
urally foolish. 

While  I  was  studying  the  place  and  the  people, 
Drislane  ordered  supper.  I  paid  no  attention  to 
him  until  he  joggled  my  elbow.  "What  do  you 
think  of  her?"  he  asked. 

"Which  one?"  I  asked,  and  looked  about  me 
afresh  to  note  what  worshipful  creature  it  was  I 
had  missed. 

"You  didn't  notice,"  he  said,  plainly  put  out 
with  me,  "the  girl  who  is  waiting  on  us?" 

I  had  noticed  her;  but  when  she  reappeared  with 
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the  first  part  of  our  order,  I  noticed  anew.  A  tall, 
full-bosomed  girl  she  was,  and  as  she  walked 
across  the  floor  toward  us,  a  load  of  table  things 
in  each  hand,  she  swayed  from  her  hips  like  a 
young  tree  in  the  wind. 

The  physical  force  and  poise  of  the  girl  was 
the  notable  thing  about  her.  She  carried  her 
armfuls  of  dishes  and  food  as  if  they  were  hand- 
fuls  of  marshmallows.  She  must  have  spent 
years  working  like  a  man  in  the  fields  to  have 
developed  such  physical  power.  As  to  her  face 
— it  was  innocent  as  a  child's. 

He  introduced  me  when  she  had  set  down  her 
dishes.  "Miss  Rose" 1  didn't  get  her  sur- 
name, and  it  doesn't  matter.  "Rose's  uncle  owns 
this  place,"  he  added. 

"Poor  girl!"  I  thought. 

She  met  his  enchanted  gaze  with  a  slow,  red- 
lipped  smile.  To  me  she  gave  an  embarrassed, 
half-sidewise  glance.  Strange  men  as  yet  were 
evidently  disturbing  items  in  her  life. 

He  watched  her  when  she  left  us,  until  she  had 
passed  through  the  kitchen-door  and  beyond 
sight.  "I'm  going  to.  marry  and  settle  down,"  he 
said. 

"This  young  lady?" 

"If  she'll  have  me.  I  haven't  asked  her  yet." 
He  was  fiddling  with  his  bread  and  butter.  Sud- 

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denly  he  burst  out  with:  "If  you  knew  how  lone- 
some I  used  to  get,  and  the  things  I  was  tempted 
to  do  to  forget  it!" 

"A  man  doesn't  need,  son,  to  be  entirely  exiled 
from  his  family  to  believe  that;  but  when  you're 
married  will  you  go  to  sea  just  the  same?"  I 
asked. 

He  did  not  answer. 

I  felt  sorry  for  him.  She  looked  to  be  a  good 
girl,  but  I  foresaw  her  troubles  in  a  place  like  this 
while  he  would  be  away  to  sea.  It  would  be  a 
constant  fight.  She  was  possibly  nineteen;  she 
didn't  look  like  a  girl  who  had  been  tempered  by 
temptation's  long  siege,  and  Lord  knows  what  re- 
sisting power  she  would  develop  when  so  tempted. 

From  the  fragments  Drislane  fed  me  with  while 
she  was  coming  and  going,  I  learned  that  both  her 
parents  were  dead,  that  she  had  been  in  the  city 
only  three  months,  that  her  uncle  didn't  seem  to 
see  anything  strange  in  her  employment  in  his 
place,  and  that  Drislane  was  the  first  man  who 
had  shown  an  honest  interest  in  her.  "I  take 
her  to  the  theatre  regularly,"  said  Drislane.  "I 
would  to-night,  only  I  want  to  sit  in  somewhere 
and  have  a  long  talk  with  her.  You'd  be  sur- 
prised the  things  she  doesn't  know  about  the 
world." 

"I  wonder,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "if  you  real- 
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ize  the  things  you  don't  know  about  the  world," 
and  began  to  wish  then  for  his  own  sake  that  he'd 
hurry  up  and  take  to  looking  at  life  through  the 
same  glasses  other  people  used. 

She  was  living  in  sordid  quarters  in  a  section 
where  a  woman  was  any  man's  who  could  get  her, 
and  on  any  terms  he  could  get  her;  and  she  was  of 
the  type  and  at  the  age  which  has  always  been 
held  most  desirable  by  the  primitive  male;  and 
it  was  to  be  doubted  if  she  had  had  the  religious 
or  home  training  needful  to  an  emotional  nature. 
In  a  good  home,  in  a  community  where  a  woman 
was  respected  because  she  was  a  woman,  all 
would  have  been  fine;  but  here — they  married, 
and  he  most  of  the  time  at  sea — I  felt  sorry  for 
her  as  well  as  for  him. 

"Take  her  out  of  here  when  you  marry,"  I 
said  to  him  before  parting. 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  had  a  scrap  with 
my  people  leaving  home.  They're  all  right  at 
home — the  best — but  they  want  me  to  get  down 
on  my  knees  to  them." 

"  Better  be  on  your  knees  of  your  own  will  to 
your  own  people  than  against  your  will  to  an 
enemy,"  I  said,  but  it  had  no  meaning  to  him; 
and  I  left  him  to  his  Rose,  almost  wishing  that 
something  would  happen  to  him  soon  to  shake 
him  up,  even  if,  shaking  him  up,  it  shook  off  a 

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few  of  the  purple  blossoms  that  he  thought  so 
necessary  to  the  tree  of  life.  Thinking  of  him  I  al- 
most talk  like  him  in  his  absent-minded  moments. 


Ill 

I  left  Drislane  to  go  to  the  theatre  with  Cap- 
tain Norman  Sickles.  The  theatre  over,  he  went 
with  me  to  my  hotel  to  get  a  few  ship's  papers  I 
had  for  him.  After  that  we  sat  in  for  a  smoke 
and  a  chat. 

Not  that  there  was  much  chatting  on  Captain 
Norman's  part.  He  never  did  have  much  to  say 
of  himself,  nor  too  much  of  anybody  else,  though 
he  could  praise  a  man  if  he  liked  him.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  ever  spent  more  than  an  hour 
together  with  him  except  on  pure  business,  and  I 
was  curious  to  know  just  what  he  thought  of  a 
lot  of  things;  among  others,  of  his  cousin.  I  gave 
him  two  or  three  openings,  but  he  didn't  rush  in. 
What  he  did  have  to  say  of  him  he  said  at  one 
gulp.  It  was:  "Where  I  was  raised  'twas  common 
talk  that  after  you'd  been  getting  naught  but  fair 
winds  for  a  long  course,  it  was  then  a  good  time 
to  keep  a  watch  out.  The  headwinds  have  to 
come  some  time,  and  the  longer  they  be  in  coming 
the  longer  they'll  stay  with  you  when  they  does 
come.  Oliver  Sickles's  been  runnin'  with  a  free 


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sheet  so  long  that  I  calculate  he's  forgot  there's 
such  a  thing  as  headwinds  this  side  the  Western 


ocean." 


Even  as  Drislane,  so  did  Captain  Norman  look 
like  a  terribly  lonesome  man  at  times.  He  prob- 
ably was  not  yet  over  losing  that  girl  who  had 
been  tricked  into  marrying  his  cousin.  His  cousin 
seemed  to  have  got  over  it.  There  was  gossip 
enough  between  Boston  and  Norfolk  to  hang 
more  than  a  suspicion  of  that  on — for  that  and 
the  belief  that  not  so  much  in  marrying  her  as 
in  getting  the  girl  away  from  his  cousin  was  where 
Captain  Oliver  had  most  likely  achieved  his  main 
desire. 

We  talked  until  Captain  Norman  thought  it 
was  time  for  him  to  be  getting  back  aboard  his 
vessel  and  turning  in.  As  he  stood  up  to  go,  he 
said:  "  Tis  said  you  like  a  little  sea  trip  now  and 
again?  Why  don't  you  go  home  with  me  in  the 
Sirius?" 

I  was  pleased  at  that — he  was  known  to  be  not 
over-free  with  his  invitations — and  I  thanked  him, 
but  on  my  not  saying  yes  or  no  at  once  he  looked 
chagrined;  seeing  which,  I  explained  that  early 
that  fall  his  cousin  had  invited  me,  if  ever  I  cared 
to  return  to  Boston  by  water,  to  take  passage 
with  him  on  the  Orion. 

He  tried  to  smile.  He  was  a  whale  of  a  man, 
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bashful  in  his  ways.  He  smiled  like  an  over- 
grown boy  who  had  done  something  there  was 
no  harm  in  but  of  which  he  was  ashamed.  "He 
always  appears  to  be  gettin'  in  ahead  o'  me, 
don't  he?"  he  said,  wistfully-like,  after  a  moment, 
which  hurried  me  into  saying:  "But  I  never  said 
Fd  go  with  him,  captain,  and  he  probably  thinks 
he  knows  me  too  well  to  ask  me  now.  I  want  to 
go  with  you,  captain,  and" — I  made  up  my  mind 
then  and  there — "I  will — and  proud  to  have  you 
ask  me." 

"Good!"  'Twas  a  real  smile  now.  "And  if 
the  Orion  hauls  out  with  us  you  may  see  a  wet 
passage,  and  maybe  a  bit  of  excitement  of  one 
kind  or  another  before  we  make  Boston  Light." 

We  shook  hands  on  the  hope  of  a  fast  run  to 
Boston,  and  then,  drawing  from  my  suit-case  a 
package  of  receipts,  coal  memoranda,  and  so  on, 
I  held  them  up.  "For  the  Orion,  captain.  Where 
do  you  suppose  I'll  find  your  cousin  this  time  of 
night  to  give  them  to  him?" 

"Where  but  the  Tidewater  where  that  girl 
is?" 

I  stopped  to  put  one  thing  to  another.  "And 
he  is  after  that  red-haired  Rose,  too?" 

"What  else?" 

"But  doesn't  she  know,  or  doesn't  her  uncle 
know,  that  he's  a  wife  in  Boston?" 

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"Her  uncle!"  he  snorted.  "He's  no  more  wit 
than  my  ship's  cat." 

"But  Drislane  knows — won't  he  tell  her?" 

"He  don't  seem  to.  A  proud  one,  Drislane. 
Six  months  he's  been  with  me  now  in  the  Sirius, 
and  if  she  isn't  sure  she  wants  him  above  anybody 
else  on  this  earth,  then  she  needn't  have  him, 
that's  all;  or  leastwise,  that's  how  I  sense  him. 
He  wouldn't  take  no  odds  of  the  devil,  that  lad." 

I  could  believe  that;  and  it  set  me  to  thinking. 

"Maybe  you're  thinkin'  now,"  he  went  on, 
"that  she  should  be  able  to  see  for  herself  what 
my  cousin  is?  But  what  training  has  she  had  to 
judge  o'  men?  What  other  kind  does  she  see 
aught  of  in  her  uncle's  place?  Indeed,  with  her 
bringing  up  and  what  brains  the  poor  girl  has, 
she's  done  very  well,  I'm  thinkin',  to  ha'  kept  off 
the  rocks  as  long  as  she  has.  A  hundred  to  one 
you'll  find  my  fine  cousin  at  the  Tidewater  to- 
night. But  I  must  be  going.  Good  night  to 
you." 

Only  the  bartender  was  in  the  front  room  of  the 
Tidewater,  and  he  was  so  busy  peeking  through 
a  slide  in  the  wall,  the  same  through  which  he 
passed  the  drink  orders  from  the  restaurant,  that 
he  did  not  hear  me  come  in.  The  door  to  the  in- 
ner room  was  closed,  but  the  low-powered  roars 

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of  people  trying  hard  not  to  be  noisy  were  oozing 
through. 

"What's  doing?"  I  called  to  the  bartender.  I 
had  to  call  it  twice  to  make  him  turn  around. 

"It's  the  big  captain  of  the  Orion  and  that  little 
deck-hand  Drislane." 

Anybody  taking  Drislane  for  a  joke  always  did 
get  my  goat.  "He's  not  a  deck-hand!"  I  bit  out, 
"he's  a  seaman,  and  a  good  one.  But  what  about 
him  and  Captain  Sickles?" 

"It's  about  him  an'  the  boss's  Rose.  The  cap- 
tain begins  to  abuse  Drislane  somethin'  fierce, 
an'  he  comes  back  at  him.  Then  the  captain 
brings  her  into  it.  'What  would  a  girl  be  wan  tin' 
with  a  little  runt  like  you?'  he  says;  and  after 
that,  'I  dunno  but  I'll  take  her  to  Boston  with  me 
this  trip,'  and  said  it  like  he  meant  it.  An'  the 
little  Drislane  he  jumps  into  him  two-handed,  an' 
they're  hard  at  it  now." 

I  squeezed  inside  the  door  of  the  inner  room. 
"Man-to-man  fashion!"  I  could  hear,  in  the 
powerful  voice  of  Captain  Oliver,  while  I  was 
crowding  through  the  ring  of  people  to  the  open 
space  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  "That's  it — 
man  fashion  wi'  the  naked  fists!"  some  scattering 
voices  echoed. 

Man-to-man  fashion!  As  if  man  could  invent 
an  unfairer  scheme  to  settle  private  quarrels! 
Give  a  man  heavy  muscles  and  huge  knuckles, 

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tough  hide  and  thick  skull,  add  half  the  courage 
of  a  yellow  dog,  and  how  can  he  lose  at  that  game? 
The  old-time  duellists  with  their  swords  were  a 
hundred  times  fairer.  A  long  sword  to  his  wrist 
and  the  smallest  man  had  a  chance;  which  is  as 
it  should  be,  or  else  we  might  as  well  pick  some 
seven-foot,  solid-skulled  savage  from  out  of  the 
jungle  and  set  him  up  for  king. 

Man  to  man!  Drislane  was  five  foot  six  and 
weighed,  possibly,  a  hundred  and  thirty-five 
pounds,  and  was  no  boxer.  Sickles  was  six  foot 
three  and  weighed  two-fifty.  He  had  enormous 
muscles  and  knuckles  of  brass.  His  hide  was 
thick  and  hard  as  double-ought  canvas.  Dris- 
lane could  have  stood  ofF  and  pounded  on  his  ribs 
for  a  week  and  hardly  black-and-blued  them.  He 
could  have  swung  on  him  for  a  month  and  not 
knocked  him  over. 

It  was  the  old-fashioned  style  of  stand-up 
fighting.  No  regular  rounds  with  a  rest  between. 
The  men  rushed  and  slugged  and  clinched  and 
tugged,  and  when  they  fell,  got  up  and  went  at 
it  again.  Always,  when  they  went  to  the  floor, 
Sickles  let  his  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  drop 
limp  and  heavy  on  Drislane.  Drislane  would 
almost  flatten  out  under  it.  Standing  up,  when 
Sickles's  fist  landed  on  him  he  would  wince  all 
over.  He  felt  pain  like  a  girl. 

It  was  slaughter.  Blood,  blood,  blood;  and 
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the  blood  all  on  one  side.  For  perhaps  twenty 
times  Drislane  was  knocked  flat.  If  Sickles  had 
only  the  explosive  spark  to  go  with  those  tre- 
mendous blows  he  wouldn't  have  had  to  hit  Dris- 
lane more  than  once.  But  he  could  only  continue 
to  knock  the  little  man  flat;  and  knocking  him 
flat  often  enough,  the  pounding  finally  told. 

The  time  came  when  Drislane  could  not  rise 
to  his  feet.  He  worked  himself  up  to  one  knee, 
with  the  big  man  waiting  for  him  to  look  up  so  he 
might  deliver  the  blow  more  sweetly.  Drislane, 
knowing  to  the  full  what  was  coming,  looked  up 
and  took  all  there  was  of  it. 

This  time  he  lay  flat  and  quiet.  The  trium- 
phant Sickles  bent  over  him.  "Y'are  satisfied, 
are  yuh?" 

Sickles  wasn't  going  to  stop  with  beating  him 
up.  Drislane  must  proclaim  his  conqueror's  vic- 
tory and  his  own  defeat.  Possibly  he  wanted  the 
girl  Rose  to  hear  it.  She  had  been  standing  back 
on  a  box  in  the  kitchen  doorway  and  must  have 
seen  most  of  the  fight.  I  was  wondering  how  far 
the  joy  of  battle  would  mount  in  her  primitive 
nature;  but  when  I  looked  up  to  note  that,  and 
how  she  took  Drislane's  beating,  she  had  gone. 

"Are  yuh?  Speak  up! — are  yuh?"  bellowed 
Sickles. 

Drislane  by  now  could  open  his  eyes.  He  looked 
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up  at  his  conqueror  but  would  not  say  the  word. 
Sickles  dug  the  toe  of  his  shoe  into  his  side. 

I  had  been  waiting,  half  sick  to  my  stomach, 
for  a  good  excuse  to  butt  in.  I  had  marked,  when 
I  first  came  in,  a  piano-stool  setting  upside  down 
atop  of  the  piano  to  one  side  of  the  room.  In 
these  possibly  rough-house  wind-ups  it  never  does 
any  harm  to  note  where  a  few  little  articles  of 
warfare  may  be  picked  up  in  a  hurry.  This 
piano-stool  had  a  two-inch  oak  seat. 

"You  wunt,  heh?"    Sickles  lifted  his  foot. 

"No,  he  won't!"  I  butted  in,  and  as  he  straight- 
ened up  to  see  who  it  was,  I  went  on:  "And 
don't  think  I'll  be  foolish  enough  to  go  staving  in 
my  good  knuckles  on  you.  See  this  little  where- 
withal I'm  holding,  and  not  too  loosely,  by  the 
wind'ard  leg?  You've  a  fine  thick  skull,  but  this 
is  thicker.  One  cute  little  wallop  o'  this  amidships 
of  your  ears,  and  it's  little  you'll  care  whether 
you  take  the  Orion  out  on  the  first  or  the  last  of 
the  flood-tide  to-morrow.  Let  him  be!" 

Now,  don't  let 'anybody  think  I  was  making  a 
play  for  any  Carnegie  medal  thereby.  I  knew 
Oliver  Sickles,  and  even  better  did  I  know  his 
kind,  who  only  go  to  battle  when  certain  victory 
lies  before  them.  The  only  chance  I  was  taking 
was  with  my  firm's  interests.  It  might  be  that 
he'd  have  such  a  grouch  against  me  that  he'd 

150 


Cross  Courses 

carry  no  more  coal  for  my  firm  than  he  could  help 
in  future. 

He  let  him  be.  He  put  on  his  collar  and  coat, 
and  received  as  his  due  the  applause  of  that 
crawling  breed  which  are  never  by  any  chance 
seen  shaking  hands  with  anybody  but  a  winner. 
While  he  was  still  at  the  hand-shaking  I  threw 
him  his  ship's  papers. 

I  had  the  bartender  order  a  carriage,  and  while 
waiting  I  tried  to  cheer  up  Drislane.  I  told  him 
that  he  must  not  think  of  going  to  sea  next  day, 
that  I  would  see  Captain  Norman  Sickles  and  get 
him  off,  and  later  go  with  him  to  Boston  by  rail. 

He  shook  his  head.  He  could  hardly  part  his 
swollen  lips  to  talk;  and  then  could  only  half 
whisper.  "I'll  sail  to-morrow  on  the  Sirius"  he 
said;  and  rolled  his  head  over  to  see  what  Sickles 
was  doing. 

Sickles  was  just  then  stepping  through  that 
kitchen  doorway  where  but  two  minutes  earlier 
Rose  had  been  standing.  Drislane  closed  his 
eyes;  and  then,  as  if  he  thought  he  had  to  show 
me  he  wasn't  beaten,  he  opened  them  and  smiled. 
After  I'd  fully  taken  in  that  smile,  I  wished  he  had 
cried. 

The  bartender  called  through  the  slide  that  the 
carriage  was  waiting.  I  carried  out  Drislane, 
drove  him  to  my  hotel,  and  called  in  a  doctor. 


Cross  Courses 

Between  us  we  gave  him  a  hot  bath,  salved  and 
plastered  him,  and  put  him  to  bed. 

I  turned  in  on  a  cot  which  I  had  had  brought 
in.  Hours  after  I  heard  him  groan.  I  switched 
on  the  light  and  went  to  him.  He  was  lying  on 
his  side  with  his  head  on  one  arm.  His  hands 
were  clinched. 

After  a  moment  he  said:  "She  is  in  trouble 
somewhere."  That  was  another  one  of  the  things 
he  believed  in — telepathy. 

He  may  or  may  not  have  had  it  right;  but  it 
certainly  wasn't  going  to  do  him  any  good  to  let 
him  lie  there  and  be  torturing  himself.  "Sh-h — 
go  to  sleep,  son.  Don't  imagine  things.  You'll 
find  everything  will  be  all  right  to-morrow,"  I 
said. 

"No,"  he  said,  "everything  will  never  be  all 
right  while  he's  alive  and  I'm  alive." 

That  didn't  sound  good  to  me,  so  I  sat  down  by 
the  bed  and  began  to  talk  to  him.  We  talked,  I 
doing  the  most  of  it,  until  past  daylight.  We 
talked  of  her.  "She's  all  right,"  he  said  at  last, 
"I  tell  you  she  is.  Even  if  she  didn't  like  me  and 
did  him,  it  would  be  only  natural.  But  she  likes 
me — the  best  of  her  likes  me  better  than  him,  and 
when  she  gets  to  know  him  all  of  her  will  like  me. 
You'll  see." 

There  were  people  who  used  to  say  Drislane 

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was  so  innocent  as  to  be  a  joke;  but  after  that 
talk  into  that  wintry  dawn  I  had  to  salute  him. 
He  had  just  a  little  something  on  all  of  us  who 
were  so  much  more  worldly-wise.  It  surely  was  a 
great  gift  he  had — to  see  in  every  woman  only  the 
shining  soul. 

IV 

No  man  could  say  where  the  word  came  from, 
no  man  could  say  that  he  had  seen  her  himself; 
but  the  word  was  out  that  Oliver  Sickles  had 
boarded  his  vessel  in  the  early  morning  with  the 
red-haired  girl  of  the  Tidewater  Cafe  in  tow. 

Nobody  on  the  Sirius  ever  intended  to  pass  the 
word  to  Drislane,  but  no  crew  of  a  vessel  can  be 
whispering  for  hours  without  the  one  man  they 
don't  discuss  the  mysterious  matter  with  want- 
ing to  guess  what  it  is  they  are  trying  to  keep 
from  him.  Drislane  guessed. 

I  had  brought  him  to  the  Sirius  in  a  carriage 
just  before  she  sailed.  Captain  Norman  had 
told  him  to  keep  to  his  bunk  until  the  Sirius  tied 
up  to  the  dock  in  Boston  if  he  wished,  but  Dris- 
lane did  not  wish.  He  came  on  deck,  still  band- 
aged and  battered,  on  the  first  morning  out,  to 
stand  his  watch.  A  word  blown  across  the  deck, 
when  he  was  thought  to  be  still  in  his  bunk  be- 

153 


Cross  Courses 

low,  halted  him  in  his  walk  aft.  He  turned  and 
stared  at  the  man  who  was  speaking,  whereupon 
followed  such  a  sudden  and  foolish  twist  to  the 
conversation  that  he  might  just  as  well  have  been 
told. 

Throughout  his  trick  at  the  wheel  Drislane  said 
nothing,  but  every  moment  the  compass  could 
spare  his  eyes  saw  them  roaming  across  to  where 
the  Orion,  like  ourselves,  was  plugging  through  the 
short  green  seas  for  home.  When  his  watch  was 
done  he  borrowed  my  glasses,  climbed  by  painful 
relays  to  the  masthead  and  trained  them  on  the 
Orion.  After  he  came  down  and  had  gone  below, 
I  went  aloft  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning 
trying  to  see  what  it  was  that  Drislane  may  have 
seen  on  the  deck  of  Oliver  Sickles's  vessel. 

Was  it  a  woman's  head  showing  above  the 
cabin  companionway  ?  or  was  it  a  man  passenger 
Oliver  Sickles  had  taken  aboard  at  the  last  min- 
ute? If  a  man,  he  surely  was  no  seagoer;  for  in 
the  two  hours  that  I  watched  he  never  once  stepped 
out  on  deck.  He  leaned  dejectedly,  or  it  might  be 
patiently,  but,  either  way,  motionless  as  a  stan- 
chion against  the  companion  casing,  his  soft  flap- 
ping hat  and  the  shoulders  of  a  loose  coat  show- 
ing just  above  the  woodwork.  Man  or  woman, 
the  face  was  pointed  steadily  toward  the  Sirius. 

Our  captain  said  it  was  a  passenger  of  some  kind. 
154 


Cross  Courses 

It  had  to  be,  he  said,  because  during  the  morning 
he  had  kept  an  eye  on  the  Orion's  deck  and  ac- 
counted for  every  man  of  her  crew,  which  num- 
bered exactly  the  same  as  his  own;  even  for  the 
cook,  who  had  shown  himself  on  deck  to  heave  a 
bucket  of  galley  refuse  over  the  rail.  It  could 
not  be  an  extra  hand  shipped  for  the  trip,  be- 
cause no  hand  would  be  allowed  to  stand  on  the 
cabin  stairs. 

And  did  he  think  it  was  a  man  or  a  woman? 
The  shoulders  in  the  loose  coat  looked  wide 
enough  to  be  a  man's.  And  I  looked  at  him  and 
he  at  me.  So  was  Drislane's  Rose  big  enough  for 
a  man,  but  we  said  no  more  of  that  then — Dris- 
lane  had  just  come  on  deck  and  was  making  his 
way  aft.  Again  he  borrowed  my  glasses,  went 
aloft,  and  trained  them  on  the  Orion.  From  time 
to  time  he  looked  down  to  the  man  at  the  wheel, 
as  if  to  hint  to  him  to  get  a  little  nearer  the  Orion, 
but  the  man  at  the  wheel  had  already  got  a  quiet 
word  from  the  captain.  We  were  to  leeward. 
"Keep  off— keep  off—  off—  off— !"  Captain  Nor- 
man was  saying  in  a  low  voice  to  the  helmsman. 
"  Don't  let  her  get  any  nearer,  leastwise  while  he's 
aloft  with  the  glasses." 

It  looked  as  if  we  would  have  to  wait  to  get 
to  Boston  to  settle  the  question.  Meantime,  if 
Drislane  would  only  try  to  forget  everything  of 

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shore  matters,  he  might  be  getting  great  comfort 
of  a  run  like  this.  If  he  were  himself,  he  would 
by  now,  being  half  in  the  way  of  a  poet  and  half 
hoping  some  day  to  be  an  artist,  be  drawing  little 
water-colors  and  writing  little  rhymes  of  these 
two  big  schooners  racing  home  together. 

'Twould  have  been  well  worth  his  paint  and 
paper.  The  Orion  and  the  Sirius  were  two  of  the 
best  in  their  class  and  more  trimly  modelled  than 
most.  What  the  Orion  looked  like  we  must  have 
looked  like,  and  she  was  something  I  used  to 
spend  whole  watches  on  deck  just  looking  at. 
She  carried  an  open  rail  amidships,  and  her  white- 
painted  stanchions,  carved  to  hour-glass  form, 
with  the  white-painted  flat  hand-rail  atop,  stood 
clearly,  sharply,  beautifully  out  above  her  black 
lower  sides  and  the  pale-green  seas. 

Not  that  either  of  us  had  much  lower  planking 
to  show,  for  four  thousand  five  hundred  tons  of 
coal  had  brought  us  pretty  well  down  to  our 
scuppers.  Too  deep-loaded  for  our  best  looks, 
some  would  say;  but  I  don't  know — with  all  her 
jibs  and  all  whole  sail  to  her  five  lower  spars,  we 
must  have  looked  pretty  good,  the  pair  of  us, 
plugging  along  together  through  the  curling 
rollers.  We  had  set  no  topsails  or  staysails, 
because  they  would  not  have  stayed  on,  blowing 
as  it  was  a  good  half-gale. 


Cross  Courses 

It  could  have  been  blowing  twice  a  gale  and 
nothing  happened  to  either  of  us.  Probably  no 
stiffer  class  of  vessels  sails  the  seas  than  the  big 
coasters  of  our  side  of  the  North  Atlantic.  Give 
them  plenty  of  ballast  and  there  is  no  capsizing 
them.  We  surely  had  plenty  of  ballast  in  us 
now,  and  took  cheerfully  all  the  hard  westerly 
had  to  give  us,  and  foamed  along.  Foamed  ?  We 
wallowed — like  a  couple  of  sailing  submarines 
almost.  In  that  wind  and  sea,  with  all  that 
loose  water  sloshing  around  her  deck,  there  was 
no  careless  standing  around  of  course;  but  with 
rubber  boots  to  your  hips,  a  good  oil-slicker  to 
your  back,  and  yourself  lashed  to  something  solid 
up  to  wind'ard,  it  was  a  great  place  for  a  man 
to  let  the  wind  blow  away  three  months  of  coal- 
dust  from  his  eyelids;  and  what  the  wind  couldn't 
blow  away  the  sea  would  surely  wash  out. 

That  loose  water  flopping  around  her  deck — that 
was  no  harm.  "Tarpaulin  her  hatches,  clamp  'em 
down,  and  let  her  roll!" — that  had  been  Captain 
Norman's  word  coming  out  of  Hampton  Roads. 
And  "Batten  her  down  and  let  her  plug  into  it!" 
had  come  roaring  across  to  us  at  almost  the  same 
moment  from  the  deck  of  the  Orion.  And  no 
more  than  into  the  open  Atlantic  than  we  were 
plugging  into  it.  The  sea  came  mounting  up  over 
our  low  lee-rails — up,  up  our  swash-swept  decks, 

157 


Cross  Courses 

clear  across  us  sometimes,  when  for  a  moment  a 
doubtful  helmsman  would  let  her  ship  an  extra 
cargo.  But,  again,  no  harm  in  that.  Let  'em 
slosh  and  let  'em  roll — we  were  standing  up,  the 
pair  of  us,  like  two  brick  houses.  And  the  rest 
didn't  matter.  And  so  almost  forgetting  Drislane's 
trouble  in  the  strain  of  the  race,  we  batted  our  way 
through  the  winter  seas  on  which  the  sun  was 
dancing — batted  and  slatted,  plugged  and  slugged 
our  way  beside  the  Orion  for  the  New  England 
coast. 

Two  vessels  may  be  built  alike  and  rigged 
alike,  but  that  doesn't  mean  they  will  sail  alike. 
The  Orion,  in  the  judgment  of  seafaring  folk,  was 
a  shade  faster  reaching  and  running  than  the 
Sirius.  At  any  rate,  the  Orion  proved  to  us  that 
she  was  faster  off  the  wind  than  we  were  by 
rounding  Cape  Cod  before  us.  To  there  it  had 
been  a  good  passage.  No  collier  loaded  to  her 
scuppers  is  ever  going  to  break  any  sailing  records, 
but  hard  driving  had  brought  the  pair  of  us  along 
at  a  good  clip.  So  far,  fine;  but  it  was  to  be  a 
beat  to  windward  for  the  rest  of  the  way.  West- 
north-west  is  the  course  from  Cape  Cod  to  Bos- 
ton, and  west-north-west  was  where  the  wind  was 
coming  from  when  it  hit  us  on  the  nose  as  we 
rounded  the  Cape. 

The  Orion  might  outrun  us,  the  Sirius,  but  to 


Cross  Courses 

windward  there  was  no  difference  except  in  their 
masters;  and  there  we  had  the  best  of  it.  Nor- 
man Sickles  could  get  more  out  of  a  vessel  than 
his  cousin  when  the  going  was  bad.  Oliver  used 
to  claw  around  deck  like  a  sore-headed  bear,  and 
every  now  and  then  go  below  and  have  a  drink 
for  himself  when  things  weren't  breaking  right. 
Norman  took  things  more  quietly,  and  so  taking 
them  wasn't  too  busy  to  grab  every  little  chance 
that  bobbed  up. 

The  Orion  stood  off  on  one  tack,  we  on  the 
other,  and  by  and  by  we  lost  her  below  the  hori- 
zon; but  standing  in,  after  some  hours  found  her 
again;  and  finding  her,  were  pleased  to  see  that 
we  had  made  up  something  on  her.  We  filled 
away  once  more,  and  by  and  by  stood  back  to 
her.  We  were  making  distance  fast.  Had  we 
held  on  we  would  have  crossed  her  wake  almost 
under  her  stern  on  that  tack.  On  our  next  tack 
we  would  be  crossing  her  bow,  and  it  would  then 
be  on  past  the  lightship  in  the  lead,  and  the  race 
over;  for  neither  of  us  was  going  to  tack  up  the 
channel,  deep-loaded,  against  a  tide  which  would 
soon  be  ebbing.  Up  at  the  harbor  entrance  two 
tugs  had  already  seen  that  and  were  racing  out 
to  pick  us  up. 

To  more  quickly  get  in  tow  of  the  tug  nearest 
us,  which  was  coming  hooked  up  for  us,  our  cap- 

159 


Cross  Courses 

tain  put  the  Sirius  about  earlier  than  he  had 
originally  intended.  As  we  tacked,  so  did  the 
Orion.  We  stood  in  toward  the  harbor.  The 
Orion  stood  in  toward  the  harbor.  We  were 
surely  going  to  pass  close  to  each  other — very 
close.  Altogether  too  close. 

I  didn't  like  the  looks  of  things.  Being  a  pas- 
senger, I  had  a  mind  free  for  other  things  than 
navigation.  "In  case  of  doubt  who  gives  way — 
the  Orion  or  the  Sirius?"  I  asked  Captain  Nor- 
man. "Why,  she  does,"  he  said,  surprised.  "It 
has  to  be  her — not  us.  Both  of  us  close-hauled, 
but  we  being  starboard  tack  have  the  right  of  way. 
He'll  have  to  come  about  and  give  us  the  road." 

"But  suppose,  captain,  he  will  not  give  way?" 

"What!  not  give  way!  That'd  be  foolish.  He 
c'n  go  bulling  his  way  on  shore  all  he  pleases,  but 
out  here  he'll  only  get  what's  due  him.  He'll  have 
to  give  way." 

So  Norman  Sickles  said,  but  he  wasn't  the  man 
to  lose  his  vessel  or  risk  men's  lives.  The  Orion 
was  holding  on.  She  was  going  to  force  us.  When 
Norman  Sickles  saw  that,  he  motioned  with  his 
arm  for  the  man  at  our  wheel  to  keep  off.  But  the 
Sirius  wasn't  keeping  off.  Norman  Sickles  turned 
and  yelled:  "Keep  her  off— off— off,  I  say!"  start- 
ing aft,  at  the  same  time,  to  take  the  wheel 
himself. 

160 


Cross  Courses 

He  was  too  late.  They  seemed  drawn  to- 
gether. We  took  a  shoot.  The  Orion  took  a 
shoot.  "Damned  if  she  didn't  get  away  from 
him!"  I  remember  hearing  one  of  our  fellows  jerk 
out,  but  I  remember  also  I  was  left  wondering 
whether  he  meant  our  vessel  or  the  Orion. 

They  rushed  together  and  g-g-h-h!  Talk  of  a 
smash!  Forty-five  hundred  tons  of  coal,  nine- 
tenths  of  it  below  the  water-line,  and  a  breeze  of 
wind!  Either  one  would  have  sunk  a  battle-ship. 
It  shook  the  spars  out  of  the  Orion.  Her  after- 
mast  came  down,  the  next  one  came  down,  the 
others  were  swaying.  "The  boat — the  boat!" 
her  crew  yelled,  but  taking  another  look  up  at 
those  wabbling  masts,  they  waited  to  launch  no 
boat.  With  few  words  but  much  action,  they 
went  over  her  side,  one  after  the  other,  and  began 
to  claw  out  for  the  Sirius,  on  which — she  was 
sinking  too — our  crew  had  a  big  quarter-boat 
ready  to  launch. 

While  the  two  vessels  were  still  locked  in  col- 
lision I  had  seen  Drislane  come  running  from  aft 
and  leap  into  the  Orion.  I  lost  sight  of  him  then, 
because  with  our  captain  I  had  jumped  below 
into  our  cabin,  he  to  save  his  ship's  papers  and  I 
to  save  my  firm's.  We  were  on  deck  in  time  to 
get  into  our  boat,  and  help  pick  up  the  crew  of 
the  Orion  in  the  water. 

161 


Cross  Courses 

Looking  for  Drislane  then,  I  saw  him  and  Cap- 
tain Oliver  Sickles  at  each  other's  throats  in  the 
stern  of  the  Orion.  There  wasn't  much  left  of  her 
above  water  then.  And  on  her  deck  it  was  a  mess 
of  fallen  spars,  with  her  foremast  the  only  stick 
left,  and  that — unsupported  by  backstays  and 
the  wind  still  pressing  against  the  big  sail — that 
was  wabbling.  Even  as  we  looked  it  came  down 
— lower  and  top  parts — with  a  smash  which 
snapped  the  topmast  off  and  sent  it  twisting  and 
gyrating  to  where,  after  a  bound  or  two,  it  rolled 
down  and  pinned  to  the  deck  the  two  battling 
men  in  the  stern.  With  it  came  a  tangled  mess 
of  halyards  and  stays. 

We  had  picked  up  all  of  the  Orion's  crew  from 
the  water  and  were  now  hurrying  to  get  to  the 
two  men  on  the  Orion,  which  was  fast  settling, 
when  a  red-haired  girl  came  running  from  the 
cabin  companionway.  Almost  as  if  she  had  been 
waiting  in  ambush,  she  rushed  over  to  the  fallen 
spar,  untangled  the  halyards  from  the  legs  of  one 
of  the  furthest  men,  and  after  an  effort  lifted  the 
end  of  the  spar  so  that  he  could  scramble  free. 
She  needed  to  be  strong  to  do  that;  but  she  was 
strong.  If  she  had  held  the  spar  up  only  an  in- 
stant longer,  the  other  man  might  have  wiggled 
free  too.  But  she  let  it  drop  back.  The  man  she 
had  freed  she  picked  up  and  carried  to  the  quarter- 

162 


Cross  Courses 

rail,  where  she  waited  for  us  in  the  boat.  He  made 
an  effort  as  if  to  get  back  to  the  man  left  under 
the  spar,  but  she  would  not  let  him.  :  'Tain't  no 
crime,  Honey,"  I  heard  her  say  as  we  got  to  them. 
She  went  overboard  as  she  said  it,  and  we  had  to 
hurry  to  get  her.  "I  know  him  a  heap  better  than 
you-all,  Honey — let  him  rest  where  he  done  fall 


to." 


She  couldn't  swim,  but  we  got  them  in  time. 
She  didn't  mind  us  in  the  least.  "He  done  tol' 
me,  Honey,  you  was  dyin'  abo'd  yo'  ship  'n'  o' 
coase  I  goes  on  down  to  see.  It  sure  did  look  like 
yo'  own  ship,  Honey" — she  was  saying  to  him 
before  we  had  them  both  fairly  in  the  boat.  It 
was  Drislane  she  had,  his  head  cuddled  on  her 
knees  till  the  tug  came  and  got  us. 

We  weren't  in  time  to  get  to  the  man  she  had 
left  behind.  The  last  we  saw  of  him  was  his  head 
sticking  out  like  a  turtle's  from  under  the  fallen 
spar  as  the  Orion  went  under. 

We  were  all  in  Boston  by  Christmas  Eve;  that 
is,  all  of  course  but  Oliver  Sickles — and  nobody 
gibed  at  his  memory  for  that.  He  had  his  good 
reason. 

The  tug  rushed  the  two  crews  up  the  harbor 
to  our  dock,  where  I  left  them  while  I  went 
to  get  carriages  and  warm  clothes  and  so  on. 

163 


Cross  Courses 

When  I  came  back  Drislane  and  his  Rose  were 
gone  and  no  word  behind  them.  But  the  day  after 
Christmas  he  came  to  the  office  early  to  get  his 
semiannual  check  and  cash  it.  I  wasn't  there, 
but  he  left  word  for  me  that  he  and  Rose  were 
married,  and  he  was  going  to  take  my  advice 
and  go  home  to  his  people.  The  office  force  said 
that  with  him  was  a  girl  of  glorious  Titian  hair 
and  super-physique,  who  smiled  wonderfully  on 
him. 

Captain  Norman  married  the  girl  he  should 
have  married  in  the  first  place.  And  so  all  the 
good  people  came  happy  out  of  it;  all  except  our 
firm.  Nine  thousand  tons  at  two  dollars  per  ton — 
there  was  eighteen  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
freights  that  we  never  collected. 

So  there's  the  Orion  and  Sirius  thing,  only,  in 
telling  it  at  the  Sailor's  Haven  the  other  night, 
our  old  stevedore  didn't  say  anything  of  Rose's 
part  in  it.  He  probably  didn't  see  what  that  had 
to  do  with  it.  However,  he  said  enough  to  con- 
vince the  lecturer,  who  was  a  pretty  fair-minded 
kind,  that  perhaps  he  would  have  to  reconstruct 
his  views  about  sailors'  superstitions. 

And  perhaps  there  is  something  in  it;  but  it's 
a  poor  case  won't  stand  hearing  both  sides  of  the 
evidence.  "Hoodoo  ships!"  It's  a  fascinating 


Cross  Courses 

phrase,  but — Oliver  Sickles  it  was  who  held  the 
wheel  of  the  Orion,  and  it  was  Drislane  to  the 
wheel  of  the  Sirius,  when  they  came  together. 


165 


LEARY  OF  THE  "LIGONIER 


Leary  of  the  "  Ligonier ' 

IT  was  a  gloomy  house,  set  in  the  shadow  of  a 
rocky  bluff,  and  made  more  gloomy  within  by 
the  close-drawn  curtains.  Since  the  news  had 
come  of  the  loss  of  John  Lowe's  son,  no  man  in  all 
Placentia  Bay  could  say  he  had  seen  those  cur- 
tains raised;  and,  so  ran  the  gossip,  John  Lowe 
being  what  John  Lowe  was,  a  long  time  again 
before  those  curtains  would  be  raised. 

John  Lowe  sat  reading  his  black-typed,  double- 
columned  page  by  the  table,  and  over  by  the 
stove  John  Lowe's  second  wife  sat  rocking  her- 
self. 

John  Lowe's  daughter  came  in,  removed  her 
shawl,  and  took  a  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the 
stove.  Her  stepmother  spoke  a  word;  but  no 
word  of  greeting  did  her  father  offer  until  his 
chapter  was  finished,  and  then  he  no  more  than 
half  turned,  while  his  harsh  voice  asked:  "Has 
he  come  into  the  bay  yet?" 

"He  has.  Tim  Lacy,  that  shipped  wi'  him 
out  o'  here,  was  to  Shepperd's  to-day — and  he'll 
be  to  Shepperd's  to-night,  Tim  says." 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

"Tim  Lacy.  Another  o'  his  kin.  And  what 
would  be  bringin'  him  to  Shepperd's  to-night?" 

"It  will  be  a  dance  to-night." 

"Oh,  the  dancin'!  No  fear  but  you'll  know 
o9  the  dancin'.  An*  he'll  be  there,  the  drinkin', 
murderin' " 

"It's  no'  right,  father,  to  be  speakin'  like  that 
o'  a  man  you  never  set  eyes  on." 

"An'  how  come  it  you  know  him,  girl?  Where 
was  it  you  had  truck  wi'  him?  Where?" 

"I  never  had  truck  wi'  him.  But  I  see  him. 
Who  could  help  seein'  him — he  was  in  an'  out  o' 
Shepperd's  his  last  time  in." 

"Well,  take  care  you  see  him  no  more.  An' — " 
A  step  outside  the  door  caused  John  Lowe  to 
pause. 

"Ah-h — "    John  Lowe  almost  smiled. 

His  wife  glanced  at  the  clock.  "It  will  be  the 
trader,"  she  explained. 

"Aye,  an'  now  we'll  ha'  the  news — now  we'll 
ha'  the  news." 

A  knock  followed  the  step,  and,  following  the 
knock,  the  door  opened  and  in  stepped  the  ex- 
pected trader.  No  wild  daredevil,  no  sail  carrier 
this,  but  a  smooth,  passionless  man  of  business. 
And  he  got  right  down  to  business. 

"  By  dawn,  John  Lowe,  there'll  be  two  hundred 
men  of  the  bay  drawn  up  on  Half-Tide  Beach. 

170 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

And  an  hour  later  the  Ligonier  and  all's  in  her 
will  be  lyin'  on  the  bottom  of  the  bay — or  so" — 
he  glanced  doubtfully  at  the  girl — "or  so  we 
planned  it.  Will  you  be  there,  John  Lowe?" 

"He'll  no'  be  there,  Mr.  Lackford."  Mrs.  Lowe 
half  rose  from  her  chair. 

John  Lowe  glared  at  her.  "And  since  when  is 
it  for  you  to  say  I'll  not  be  there?" 

"I'm  your  lawful  wife,  John  Lowe.  And  who 
is  this  man  would  tell  you  what  to  do  ?  You  read 
your  Bible  night  and  morn,  John  Lowe,  and  you 
tell  me  and  you  tell  Bess  we  should  read  it,  too, 
and  all  the  bay  knows  it.  An*  how  can  you  preach 
to  us  as  you  do  an'  join  in  this  deed  ?  '  Righteous 
shall  be  all  my  days,'  say  you,  an'  you  think  o' 
joinin'  a  band  that  will  sink  an'  destroy — yes,  an' 
mayhap  kill  in  the  morning.  This  American  has 
as  much  right  to  what  herrin'  his  men  can  ketch 
as  anybody  else." 

John  Lowe  turned  to  the  trader.  "She's  right, 
Mr.  Lackford,  she's  right." 

"You'll  not  be  with  us?" 

"I  can't." 

"After  all  you  said!  Well,  there  will  be  enough 
without  you."  He  was  still  addressing  John 
Lowe,  but  it  was  on  the  woman  his  eyes  were 
bent.  "Only  let  me  carry  back  the  word  you'll 
not  be  against  us." 

171 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

"No,  no — I'll  not  be  against  you." 

"That's  enough.    Good  night." 

"Good  night." 

The  door  closed.  They  listened  to  the  crunch- 
ing of  the  trader's  boot-heels  on  the  pebbly  beach 
outside. 

"They'll  be  killing,  mayhaps,  in  the  morning, 
and  it's  well  for  you  to  be  clear  of  it,  John  Lowe." 

"But  he  lost  my  son." 

"It  was  a  natural  death  for  a  fisherman,  John 
Lowe,  to  be  lost  that  way." 

"But  what  reason  to  love  him  for  it?" 

"What  reason  ha'  ye  to  hate  him  till  you  know 
more  of  him?" 

Silence  reigned  again  in  the  kitchen;  silence 
until  John  Lowe  set  aside  his  book  and  made  for 
the  stairs.  With  his  foot  on  the  bottom  step  he 
paused  and  sighed.  "Even  after  three  months 
it's  no'  easy  to  bear.  But  you're  right,  wife,  it's 
no'  right  what  some  of  them  be  up  to." 

"No,  it's  no'  right.  An'  he's  not  the  man 
Lackford  an'  the  others  would  ha'  you  believe, 
John." 

He  looked  long  at  his  wife.  "No?  No  doubt 
no — but  no  stop  to  it  now.  If  there  was  a  way 
to  slip  a  word  and  not  be  known  for  it;  but  there's 
no  way.  Come  to  bed,  woman.  But" — the  girl 
was  standing  up — "where  be  you  off  to?" 

172 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

The  girl  looked  to  her  stepmother;  and  the 
stepmother  answered  for  her. 

"It's  o'er-early  for  bed  yet — she's  goin'  for  an 
hour  to  Shepperd's,  John.  Go  on,  Bess,  but  don't 
stay  too  long." 

The  girl  snatched  her  shawl  and  hurried  out. 

"And  is't  so  you  manage  her,  woman?" 

"Let  be,  man,  let  be.  She's  no  child  to  be 
managed — your  way  o'  managin'.  Why  shouldn't 
she  have  her  little  pleasure?  What's  one  here  for? 
Prayers  an'  psalms,  prayers  an'  psalms " 

"An'  do  you  rail  against  the  prayin'?" 

"Not  me.  Prayin's  for  good,  no  doubt;  but 
all  of  us  hasn't  the  sin  so  black  that  it  needs 
prayin'  night  an'  day  to  burn  it  out." 

He  glared  at  her.  "An'  you're  waitin'  up  for 
her?" 

"I  am." 

"Some  night  you'll  wait  o'er-long,  woman." 

"No,  no.  She's  young,  is  Bess,  and  a  bit  soft. 
But  no  bad — no,  no,  no  bad  in  Bess.  She's  all 
we  ha'  left  now,  John — lay  a  light  hand  to  her." 

II 

Up  to  old  man  Shepperd's  the  dance  was  on, 
and  Bess  Lowe  was  there;  and  not  long  before 
the  American  captain  blew  through  the  door; 

173 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

and  no  dreary  passage  of  time  before  he  spied 
Bess. 

"Why,  Bess,  God  bless  you,  how  are  you? 
And  you  ain't  forgot?  And  do  I  get  a  dance  this 
evenin'  or  no?  Tell  me,  do  I,  now?  Ay,  that's 
you — hard-hearted  as  ever.  Eyes  to  light  a  ves- 
sel to  port,  but  never  a  soft  look  in  'em." 

"My  eyes,  Captain  Leary?" 

"Ay,  your  eyes,  Bess.  Eyes,  Bess,  that  the 
likes  of  never  looked  across  the  bay  before — eyes 
that  flash  out  from  the  dark  like  twin  shore-lights 
when  a  man's  been  weeks  to  sea." 

"Oh,  Captain  Leary!"  breathed  Bess;  and 
presently  took  to  sighing,  and  from  sighing  to 
smiling,  and  all  at  once  burst  out  into  such  laugh- 
ter that  the  whole  company  took  notice;  whereat 
a  huge,  surly  man  in  a  corner  went  into  the  back 
room. 

"Gi'  me  one  drink  and  I'll  smash  him  into  bits," 
the  big  man  said  to  Lackford,  the  trader,  who  was 
standing  guard  in  the  back  room  over  the  little 
jug  which  Shepperd  kept  handy  for  his  guests. 

"What,  now?  No.  Not  now,  please,  not  now. 
There'll  be  plenty  of  chances  for  fighting  in  the 
morning.  The  crowd  is  only  waiting  for  daylight 
to  make  a  move.  They  want  you.  Come  on 
now,  do,  and  get  a  good  night's  sleep  so's  to  be 
feeling  good  in  the  morning.  Come  on  now.  And 

174 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

you'll  have  two  hundred  men  at  your  back  in 
the  morning,  remember;  and  remember,  too,  that 
after  you've  put  the  American  out  of  the  way  all 
the  girls  in  the  bay'll  fall  to  your  hand." 

The  big  man  was  diverted,  and  passed  out 
with  Lackford,  meantime  that  Leary,  with  an 
arm  half  around  the  girl's  waist,  was  pleading: 
"The  next  dance  for  me,  hah,  Bess?" 

"Ay,  captain — who  could  deny  you?"  and  they 
went  at  it. 

'Twas  a  shuffling  across  the  floor,  a  whirling  of 
buxom  partners  by  husky  men,  who  never  omitted 
to  mark  the  measure  with  the  thump  of  boot- 
heels  that  jumped  the  dust  from  cellar  to  roof. 
Shouting,  stamping,  joking,  smiling,  with  quick 
breathing — such  joy  entirely  it  was,  with  Tim 
Lacy,  oilskinned  and  jack-booted,  leading  the 
swing  across  the  floor.  Yes,  and  back  again,  al- 
though on  him,  even  as  on  Leary,  old  Shepperd 
looked  with  disapproving  eye. 

"A  wonder,  Tim  Lacy,  you  wouldn't  leave 
your  gear  on  your  vessel,"  he  snorted. 

"Sure,  an'  I'm  on  my  way  to  the  vessel  now, 
an'  she'll  be  leavin'  the  bay  for  the  States  in  the 


mornin'.' 


"You  think  she  will,"  amended  Shepperd,  from 
behind  the  musician,  who  was  his  own  strong- 
lunged  daughter  Sue. 

On  a  chair  atop  of  a  fish-box  in  one  corner  was 
175 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

balanced  Sue,  a  native  genius,  who  puffed  most  in- 
dustriously into  a  musical  instrument  made  of  a 
sheet  of  tissue-paper  wrapped  around  a  fine- 
tooth  comb. 

Tim  Lacy,  though  he  never  let  on,  caught  the 
sly  remark.  Less  guileless  than  he  looked  was 
Lacy,  a  little  man,  forever  lighting  his  pipe.  He 
struck  another  match  now,  and  between  puffs  de- 
livered a  belated  message.  So  many  years  senior 
was  Lacy  to  his  skipper  that  he  used  to  talk  to 
him  like  a  father. 

"You  know,  as  you  said  yourself,  we  was  to 
hurry,  Sammie — and  do  come  now,  Sammie" 
-puf—"znd  hurry  on"—pu/—"to  Half-Tide 
Beach " — puff — "and  there  we'll  take  the  dory  for 
the  vessel.  Ah-h,  there  she's  goin'.  No,  drat  her, 
she's  out  again!  Hurry  on,  boy.  We  oughtn't 
be  standin'  here  all  night.  The  crew'll  be  wait- 
in'  for  us  wi'  the  vessel  at  Caplin  Cove.  A 
special  word  they  left  for  you,  Sammie.  They 
says  if  you  was  here" — here  Tim  stepped  close 
and  whispered — "as  how  I  was  to  tell  you  they're 
feared  for  trouble." 

He  peered  over  the  flame  of  the  last-lit  match 
at  his  skipper. 

"  'Tell  him,  Tim,'  they  says  to  me,  'that  if 
we're  to  get  the  last  o'  the  herrin'  aboard  that 
they're  afeard  it'll  have  to  be  an  early  start.'  I 
misdoubt" — puff — "they  have  a  notion  of  how 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

there  was  goin'  to  be  trouble.  So  come  on;  do, 
boy." 

"One  more,  Tim;  one  more  dance  before  we 
break  up.  A  crime  to  go  out  on  a  cold  night  like 
this  and  not  have  a  farewell  dance.  Come  on, 
Bess;  what  d'y'  say?  There's  the  girl!" 

Tim  was  gone,  but  back  and  forth  Sam  and 
Bess  sidled  and  stamped,  and  many  another  min- 
ute passed  with  Sam  still  whirling  his  able-bodied 
partner,  pacing  her  across  and  back  again,  lift- 
ing her  off  her  feet,  and  swinging  her — one,  two, 
three  full  circles  off  the  floor.  And  Sam  was  the 
boy  could  do  it,  a  hundred  and  seventy  pounds 
though  she  weighed,  and  continued  to  whirl  her 
after  the  last  dance  till  they  were  out  of  the  room 
and  into  the  shadows  of  the  porch,  where  he 
snatched  her  up  and  kissed  her  fair. 

The  girl's  heart  leaped  out  to  him.  Did  ever 
such  a  man  make  landing  in  the  bay  before?  And 
surely  he  must  think  the  world  of  her?  Tender- 
ness for  him  overwhelmed  her;  and  out  under  the 
stars  she  whispered  the  words  of  warning  in  his  ear. 

"What's  it,  Bess?  You're  not  foolin'?  The 
trader  to  the  head  of  them?" 

"Ay,  an'  they'll  be  at  Half-Tide  Beach  afore 
the  sun  rises— 

"D'y'  mean,  Bessie,  d'y'  mean " 

"I  mean  all  that's  bad  they'll  do  to  you, 
Sammie.  I  heard  'em  my  own  self.  'What  right 

177 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

has  this  American  to  come  here  and  take  the 
herrin'  from  our  very  doors  ?  What  right  ?  *  That's 
the  way  the  trader  talked  to  'em  in  the  back  room 
afore  you  came  in.  'In  the  old  days  I've  seen 
men  beat  to  death  on  the  beach  for  less,'  I  heard 
'em  through  the  bulkhead.  'Ay,  an'  their  ves- 
sels run  up  on  the  rocks  somewhere,'  he  goes  on. 
An'  it's  you,  Sammie,  they  has  in  mind." 

"And  the  crew  to  Caplin  Cove,  an'  only  me  and 
Tim  to  stand  by  the  vessel.  The  vessel  and  her 
full  hold.  But  who'll  get  the  word  to  them?  If 
only  there  was  some  one,  some  one  we  could 
trust,  Bess!" 

"There  is  one  that  could  do  that,  too,  boy." 
"Who?  What!  Yourself,  Bess?  Could  you 
make  where  they  are — Caplin  Cove — alone,  and  by 
night — and  tell  'em  what's  in  the  wind,  so  they'll 
be  aboard  in  time,  while  I  go  and  hurry  after  Tim 
Lacy  to  the  vessel  at  Half-Tide  Harbor?  Could 
a  woman  like  a  man  well  enough  to  do  that?" 
"Well,  women  likes  men  sometimes,  Sammie." 
"God  bless  you,  Bess,  of  course.  And  some- 
times, too,  a  man  likes —  But,  Bess!"  She 
lay  swaying  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm.  "Bessie!" 
— and  oh,  the  nearness  of  him!  "I  don't  want  to 
fool  you,  girl — we  was  carryin'  sail  the  night 
your  brother  Simon  was  lost.  A  livin'  gale,  and 
she  buttin'  into  it  with  a  whole  mains'l — you 
won't  hold  that  agin'  me?" 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

"How  could  I,  Sammie?  A  man  that's  a  man 
at  all  is  bound  to  carry  sail  at  times.  And  fisher- 
men, sail-carryin'  or  no  sail-carryin',  they  comes 
and  goes." 

"Ay,  girl,  and  sometimes  goes  quicker  than 
they  comes.  Oh,  Bess,  the  fine  men  I've  been 
shipmates  with!  And  now  'twould  take  a  chart 
of  all  the  banks  'tween  Hatteras  and  Greenland  to 
find  out  where  the  bones  of  the  half  of  'em  lie." 

"But  do  go  now,  Sammie."  She  snuggled 
closer  to  him.  "Have  a  care  now,  for  I'm  lovin' 
you  now,  Sammie." 

"Ay,  you  are.  And  I'm  lovin'  you,  Bess.  But 
your  father,  Bess;  he'll  put  you  out." 

"Well,  if  he  do- 

"If  he  do,  Bess,  you  know  who'll  be  waitin'  for 
you." 

"Ay,  I  do.  An'  I'll  come  to  you,  too,  no  fear, 
boy.  But  no  matter  about  John  Lowe  now,  boy, 
so  you  won't  forget  me,  Sammie." 

"Never  a  forget,  Bessie." 

"Then  hold  me  again,  Sammie,  afore  we  part. 
And  don't  forget — never  a  man  afore  did  I  like 
like  I  likes  you,  Sammie." 

And  Bess  had  gone  and  delivered  her  message 
to  Leary's  crew  at  Caplin  Cove.  "Be  all  hands 
aboard  afore  dawn  and  have  her  ready  to  sail,"was 

179 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

Bessie's  message,  and  with  that  put  off  for  home 
in  her  father's  little  sloop.  There  had  been  stars 
on  her  run  over,  bright,  cheerful  stars  that  made 
you  overlook  the  frost  in  the  air,  but  no  stars  now. 
But  that  was  the  way  of  the  weather  in  the  bay. 

In  the  lee  of  Shingle  Spit  it  was  calm  enough, 
and  so,  for  all  the  boom  of  the  sea  outside,  Bess 
had  time  for  revery.  A  gran'  figur'  of  a  man, 
Sammie  Leary.  Strong  he  was.  Ay,  strong. 
An'  not  stern.  Lord  knows,  there  was  enough  of 
that  to  home.  No,  no,  saft-like  same  as  Sammie 
— that  was  the  kind  for  a  woman  to  love. 

And  Sammie  now.  Out  under  the  shadow  of 
the  porch  he  had  said:  "You're  the  lass  for  me." 
Ay,  he  did.  But  so  many  talked  like  that  and 
meant  naught  by  it,  but  took  your  kiss  and  your 
heart  wi'  the  kiss  and  sailed  away,  and  you  never 
again  see  'em,  mayhap.  There  was  Jessie  Mann, 
and —  Oh,  no  matter  them.  Sammie  was  none 
o'  their  kind  o'  men.  An'  yet — there  were  those 
who  said  that  one  like  Sammie  never  made  a 
good  husband.  Sailed  wi'  too  free  a  sheet,  he 
did.  An'  yet,  did  ever  a  vessel  get  anywhere  with- 
out a  free  sheet  at  times? 

And,  thinking  of  a  free  sheet,  Bess  gave  the 

little  sloop  a  foot  or  two  more  of  main-sheet.    And 

there  she  was  going  through  the  water  faster  for 

it.    And  she  would  need  to  go  fast  through  the 

'  180 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

water  if  so  be  she  was  to  get  home  this  night. 
And  if  she  didn't  get  home — but  'twas  o'er-early 
to  worry  about  what  her  father  would  say. 

But  was  it  all  so  true  about  a  free  sheet?  Was 
it  no'  true  that,  holdin'  a  vessel's  nose  to  the  wind, 
she'd  sail  her  course  wi'  never  a  foot  o'  leeway? 
'Twas  so  her  father  maintained.  Always  safest 
to  be  on  the  straight  course,  her  father  held. 
True  enough,  but  wi'  the  wind  ahead,  what  head- 
way ?  None  at  all — while,  if  you  let  them  run  off 
a  bit,  when  they  did  come  back  on  the  course  they 
was  farther  on  the  road,  arter  all.  Ay,  so  it  was. 
And  Sammie?  What  did  the  poor  boy  ever  know 
of  a  home  or  a  lovin'  heart  to  guide  him!  Oh, 
ay,  women  should  make  allowances  for  men  like 
Sammie.  'Twas  the  good  heart  in  him. 

Out  beyond  the  end  of  the  spit  the  little  boat 
began  to  feel  the  pressure  of  the  wind  and  the 
thump  of  the  sea.  She  jumped  so  because  there 
wasn't  much  ballast  in  her.  An'  there  was  the 
matter  o'  ballast  now.  A  gran'  thing  in  a  vessel, 
a  bit  o'  ballast — like  religion  in  a  body.  Not  all 
religion,  like  her  father,  for  then  'twas  like  a 
vessel  loaded  down  wi'  ballast — took  a  gale  o' 
wind  to  stir  her,  and  a  vessel  o'  that  kind  was  no 
mortal  use  whatever — except  mayhap  for  a  light- 
ship or  something  o'  that  kind. 

The  sea  by  now  was  coming  inboard  regularly, 
181 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

and  Bess  knew  she  should  be  carrying  less  sail; 
but  it  would  mean  a  lot  of  time  to  reef  the  main- 
sail, and  if  she  was  to  get  on  there  was  small  time 
for  reefing,  'specially  as  the  wind  was  hauling  to 
the  east.  A  beat  home  now,  as  Captain  Leary 
warned  her,  'twould  be.  Surely  she  would  never 
be  home  by  daylight  now.  And  colder  now  it  was. 
Ay,  it  was.  She  drew  the  tarpaulin  over  her 
knees,  and  that  helped  to  keep  off  the  spray 
which,  as  it  splashed  up  from  her  bows,  was 
carried  aft  in  sheets  before  every  squall. 

And  those  squalls  were  frequent.  And  little 
pellets  of  hail  were  thickening  the  air.  And  over 
the  tarpaulin  that  covered  her  the  ice  was  ma- 
king. Sailin'  by  the  wind,  'tis  terrible  cold.  She 
was  becoming  drowsy — hard  work  to  keep  from 
falling  asleep.  Good  enough  for  her — ay,  good 
enough,  her  father  would  say — dancin'  half  the 
night  and  carryin'  messages  to  strangers  the  other 
half. 

The  air  softened  and  that  was  some  relief;  but 
in  place  of  the  awful  cold — and  still  cold  enough — 
was  now  the  snow.  And  in  that  snow-storm,  with 
the  wind  continually  veering,  she  knew  at  last  she 
must  have  run  off  her  course;  for  the  sound  of  the 
surf  beating  against  the  rocks  came  to  her. 

And  what  would  that  be?  What  now?  Ay, 
Shark's  Fin  Ledge  it  must  be.  She  must  ha' 

182 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

sailed  wi'  too  free  a  sheet,  arter  all.  Ay,  she 
must  ha'.  Time  to  come  about  now.  But  not 
so  much  sail  on!  Well,  sail  or  no  sail,  it  was  time 
to  come  about.  About  she  was  comin' — ay- 
she  was — no! — ay 

Over  came  the  boom,  and  then  high  it  skied, 
and  then  the  wind  took  it  and  slit  the  sail  from 
boom  to  gaff  and  off  to  leeward  went  the  sloop. 

Too  much  sheet  that  time,  thought  poor  Bess, 
and  could  have  cried  at  herself.  And  might  have 
cried  if  she  had  nothing  else  to  do.  But  no  time 
now.  Her  little  sloop  was  rolling  and  pitching  in 
the  seas,  and  drifting,  always  drifting;  and  in  that 
snow  there  was  no  seeing  how  fast  she  was  drifting 
in  to  the  ledge;  but  fast  enough,  no  doubt. 

No  use  wailing  over  it.  Bess  took  to  bailing, 
and  the  work  kept  her  from  thinking  overmuch 
of  herself;  only  she  couldn't  help  picturing  her 
father  with  his  Bible,  and  her  stepmother  wait- 
ing up  for  her.  And  Sammie?  Never  another 
dance  or  kiss  from  Sammie.  And  oh,  the  black 
disgrace  of  it  if  she  was  lost  in  the  bay,  when  may- 
be they  found  her  body  ground  to  pieces  on  the 
ledge!  There  would  be  those  who  would  say — 
what  wouldn't  they  say — of  her  that  couldn't  hide 
her  likin'  for  him  up  to  the  dance  at  Shepperd's  ? 


183 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonicr 


III 

The  tail  of  the  night  found  Leary  striding  over 
the  hills.  "Going  to  heave  her  herrin'  over- 
board, are  they?  And  she'll  never  clear  for  home, 
hah?  She  won't,  eh?"  And  over  the  hills  he  ran. 
In  and  out,  up  and  down,  over  the  crests,  and  at 
last  down  the  tangled  slope  across  moss-grown 
rocks  where  lay  the  tide-tossed  kelp,  and  onto  the 
beach,  where  in  the  dawn  he  came  suddenly  on 
them. 

A  great  shout  went  up  when  they  were  certain 
'twas  he;  and  down  upon  him  presently  they  bore. 

"Two  hundred  of  'em,  maybe,"  calculated 
Leary,  and  looked  wistfully  toward  where  his 
vessel  should  have  been  laying  to  anchor.  "If  I 
weren't  such  a  hand  for  skylarkin'  she'd  be  lay- 
in'  there  now  with  Tim  Lacy  standin'  by  the  old 
six-pounder,  and  she  loaded  to  the  muzzle  with 
nails  and  one  thing  and  another,  ready  to  sweep 
the  beach  of  'em."  And  somewhat  sadly  he  waited 
for  the  mob;  and,  waiting,  wondered  how  Bess 
was  making  out,  for  the  squalls  were  chasing  each 
other  off  the  hills,  and  out  beyond  the  little  har- 
bor, all  whitecapped,  lay  the  open  bay. 

As  a  sea  sweeps  up  and  buries  the  lone  rock 
under  its  surge,  so  did  it  seem  to  Leary  that  the 

184 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

mob  must  overwhelm  him  as  he  stood  there  alone 
on  the  beach.  Annihilation!  Their  gestures 
and  imprecations,  as  they  drew  near,  implied 
nothing  less.  "Well,  let  it  come!"  and  from  his 
mind  flew  all  but  one  clear  idea.  He  would  deal 
them  all  the  damage  he  could  before  they  over- 
bore him;  and  if  under  their  heels  on  the  sand  they 
strove  to  crush  the  life  out  of  him,  he  would  reach 
up  and  grasp  as  many  as  his  arms  would  circle. 

And  then  he  heard  the  hail  from  behind  him. 
He  flashed  a  look.  Yes,  there  was  the  vessel, 
and  it  was  Tim  Lacy  calling.  She  was  coming 
into  the  wind.  Her  jibs  were  down  by  the  run. 
Ay,  and  there  was  the  rattling  of  her  chain- 
anchor. 

"Skipper,  oh,  skipper,"  came  the  hail  again, 
and  he  heard  the  hoisting  of  a  dory.  To  one  hand 
was  the  mob  which  meant  his  destruction;  to 
the  other  hand  by  the  open  water  to  the  vessel  if 
he  could  make  it.  He  had  farther  to  go  than  they, 
but  they  were  mostly  in  oilskins,  and  he  was  a 
rarely  active  man.  That  he  knew.  Away  he 
went  over  the  little  bowlders. 

Diagonally  he  had  to  go.  A  straight  parallel 
to  the  beach  it  was  for  them.  Fast  as  he  was, 
some  of  them  would  intercept  his  way  to  the 
incoming  dory.  Three,  four,  perhaps  a  dozen 
would  be  there  before  him. 

185 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

A  dozen  it  was,  and  one  huge  man  and  Lack- 
ford,  with  no  oilskins  to  hamper  them,  were  in  the 
front;  and  because  they  were  in  front  they  felt 
the  force  of  Leary's  arm.  It  would  have  been  joy 
to  stop  and  battle  with  them  all,  but  that  wasn't 
saving  the  vessel.  He  caught  one  with  one  hand, 
and  one  with  the  other — and  it  was  so  easy  and 
so  satisfying! 

But  that  wouldn't  be  making  Bess  happy  by 
and  by.  There  were  two  more  that  he  could  have 
reached,  but  those  two  he  dodged.  But  two  now 
between  him,  and  he  was  for  stopping  to  box 
with  them — the  battle  fever  was  getting  him — 
but  a  voice  came  to  him:  "Don't  stop  for  them, 
skipper.  Come  on.  We're  here." 

Leary  turned  and  saw,  and  raced  for  the  water's 
edge.  A  wide  leap  and  he  was  in  the  dory.  They 
tore  after  him,  minding  not  the  fallen  bodies  in 
their  eagerness.  Up  to  their  waists  in  the  water 
they  rushed  with  yells  of  rage.  Stones  came  fly- 
ing after  him.  A  few  struck  him,  but  they  were 
too  small  to  do  damage. 

From  the  dory  Leary  faced  them  again.  "That's 
you — two  hundred  of  you — you  spawn  of  dog- 
fish." 

"Blast  'em,  Sammie,  don't  talk  to  them.  Out 
oars,  Ned,  and  drive  her!  Here's  the  kind  of 
talk  for  the  likes  of  them!"  and  between  his  skip- 

186 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

per's  arm  and  body  Tim  Lacy  from  behind  thrust 
an  old-fashioned  heavy  dragoon  pistol.  "Only 
one  shot  in  her,  but  make  that  one  good;  here 
y'are,  Sammie." 

Leary's  fingers  curled  about  the  stock  of  it, 
and  it  felt  pleasant  to  the  touch.  Yet  for  all  that 
he  thrust  it  back,  but  as  he  did  so  Tim's  dory- 
mate  tumbled  down  beside  Leary  in  the  dory. 
On  the  bottom  of  the  dory  the  jagged  rock  was 
rolling  even  as  the  blood  welled  from  his  temple. 
And  then  came  a  report — another,  and  a  third; 
and  with  the  third  a  bullet  whizzed  close. 

"Blast  you  all!"  shrieked  Leary,  and  with  a 
leg  either  side  of  the  fallen  man's  body  he  held 
the  pistol  waist-high.  "Come  on  now!  Come  on 
now,  I  say!  You,  and  you,  and  you,  you  white- 
livered " 

"After  him — drag  him  out  of  the  dory!" 

"Ay,  drag  me  out!  Come  you  and  drag  me 
out!"  And  threatening  variously  with  his  pistol, 
Leary  pointed  directly  at  what  seemed  to  be  a  new 
leader,  a  man  with  a  revolver.  "And  let  me  tell 
you" — he  pointed  to  the  armed  man — "whoever 
you  are,  you  round-shouldered,  glue-eyed  squid 
you,  whoever  goes,  you  go  first.  Mind  that — 
whatever  happens,  you  go  first.  I've  got  you,  you 
pop-eyed,  slit-mouthed  dogfish — and  now  shoot 
again." 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

The  man  with  the  revolver  shrank  back;  but 
Leary's  pistol  was  still  trained  on  him,  and  far- 
ther and  farther  he  shrank  until  he  melted  into 
the  body  of  the  crowd. 

In  the  rear  of  the  crowd  were  those  who  strug- 
gled to  get  nearer.  "Why  don't  you  go  after  him 
down  there?"  they  yelled.  "Or  let  us  do  it?  One 
man  against  you  all!  Why  don't  you  pull  him 
out  of  the  dory?" 

"Ay,  pull  him  out!  Send  him  to  hell!"  roared 
another. 

"Well,  send  me  to  hell,"  retorted  Leary — 
"maybe  I've  got  friends  in  hell,  too!" 

Back  onto  the  beach  receded  the  mob.  Leary 
turned  to  his  mate.  "To  the  vessel,  Tim — and 
drive  her!" 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  vessel's  deck  the 
injured  man  came  to.  A  cup  of  coffee  and  five 
minutes  by  the  fire  and  he  was  ready  to  turn 
to,  but  Leary  turned  him  into  a  bunk  instead. 
"We've  men  enough  without  you — a  full  crew. 
Lie  down,  boy,  and  go  to  sleep."  Which  he  did. 

"Now,  fellows,  make  sail.  Drive  her.  The 
trader  an'  that  whole  crowd,  they'll  be  after  us 
soon  in  their  jacks.  Come  on — lively — there's 
thirty  sail  of  'em  ready  to  round  the  point!  An', 
Tim?" 

"Ay,  Sammie." 

188 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

"Get  out  that  old  salutin'  six-pounder  and 
lash  it  forward  o'  the  windlass.  Lash  her  hard  so 
she  won't  kick  overboard  when  she's  fired." 

"Ay,  Sammie,"  and  Lacy  hurried  off. 

"And  now,  up  with  the  jibs.  And  then  mains'l 
— we've  lost  a  lot  of  time  already.  With  her  four 
lowers  and  those  squalls  shootin'  off  the  high  hills 
from  the  other  side  of  the  bay,  she'll  soon  have 
wind  enough.  And  we've  got  to  be  out  of  here 
before  the  snow  sets  in.  A  bad  place  here  in 
thick  weather.  Drive  her,  fellows — drive  her!" 

They  were  swaying  up  the  mainsail  when  Leary 
happened  to  look  over  his  shoulder.  With  the 
wind  of  the  frequently  recurring  squalls  taking 
hold  of  the  great  sail,  they  had  a  hard  task  to  get 
it  up;  but  at  last  it  was  set;  and  then  they 
trimmed  in  the  main-sheet,  while  Leary  ran  for- 
ward to  the  howitzer. 

"What  you  got  to  load  it  with,  Tim?" 

"There's  black  powder  enough,  Sammie." 

"But  we  want  to  do  something  more  than 
salute  'em,  Tim." 

"M-m — there's  the  soundin'  leads,  Sammie." 

"Get  'em!"  And  Tim  went  and  came  back 
with  a  deep-sea  lead  which  he  rammed  in  after  a 
hatful  or  so  of  powder. 

When  all  was  ready  four  inches  of  the  lead 
stuck  out  of  the  muzzle. 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

"No  matter;  you'll  do,"  Leary  commented,  and 
cast  another  look  toward  the  open  water  of  the 
bay  where  were  now  twenty-five  or  thirty  small 
schooners  rounding  the  headland. 

Leary  now  contemplated  the  anchor  chain  of 
his  vessel. 

"I  hate  to  lose  you,  'specially  like  this,  but — " 
And  without  further  word  he  reduced  the  chain 
to  one  turn  of  the  windlass.  "And  now  let  all 
hands  tuck  away  under  the  rail,  all  but  one  man 
to  go  aloft  and  look  out  for  a  small  white  sloop." 
And  he  took  the  wheel,  where  he  was  needed, 
for  the  squalls,  in  full  force,  were  now  whistling 
battle-hymns  from  deck  to  truck. 

The  fleet  of  jacks  were  now  to  be  seen  coming 
on  rapidly;  but  presently,  the  squall  proving  too 
strong  for  them,  they  all  came  fluttering  up  into 
the  wind  and  began  to  shorten  sail. 

"No  heaving-to  for  this  one,  eh,  Tim?"  yelled 
Leary;  and  putting  his  wheel  up,  and  feeling  the 
Ligonier  beginning  to  pay  off  and  the  anchor  to 
drag,  he  gave  the  word  to  slip  the  cable. 

Through  the  hawse-hole  the  clanking  chain  tore 
swiftly,  and  away  came  the  Ligonier  like  a  wild 
thing.  Leary  patted  the  wheel  and  began  to  talk 
to  her: 

"Crazy  to  get  away,  aren't  you?  Been  laying 
too  long  to  anchor,  yes.  No  wonder.  And  I'll 

190 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

not  stint  you  now — take  your  fill  of  it,  girl." 
Which  she  did,  and  with  Leary  giving  her  plenty 
of  wheel,  through  the  white  swash  she  scooped  a 
long,  wet  rail. 

Tim  Lacy  now  came  aft.  "There  they  are 
waitin'  for  us — an'  the  joke  of  it  is,  Sammie,  we 
c'n  go  out  the  North  Passage  with  a  fair  wind. 
They  must  'a'  forgot  that  I  was  born  and  brought 
up  in  this  very  bay." 

"But  we're  not  goin'  out  the  North  Passage, 
Tim." 

"No?" 

"No." 

"  But  why  ?    An*  it's  a  beat  up  by  them." 

"Well,  a  beat  it'll  be.    Go  for'ard  now." 

"What'll  he  be  at  now?"  muttered  Tim. 

But  Leary  knew.  One  eye  he  had  for  the  ap- 
proaching fleet  and  one  to  the  ledge  of  rocks 
toward  which  the  Ligonier  was  winging.  "Some 
of  'em,  by  this  time,  think  we're  trying  to  run 
away.  But  they'll  know  better  in  a  minute.  And 
now  do  you,  Tim,  stand  by  that  old  cannon." 

She  was  almost  into  the  rocks  then,  holding 
in  for  the  last  foot  of  clear  water;  but  not  for  too 
long  did  he  allow  her  to  run  on.  Just  in  time 
he  tacked,  and  then  it  was  about  and  away,  for 
the  fleet  of  native  schooners,  who,  watching  her 
closely  and  assured  now  of  her  course,  spread  out 

191 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

to  intercept  her.  Expert  seamen  themselves,  no- 
where did  they  leave  a  space  wide  enough  for  a 
rowboat,  let  alone  a  ninety-ton  fisherman,  to  slip 
through. 

And  they  were  armed.  A  shot  rang  out. 
Leary  looked  to  see  where  the  ball  struck,  but 
among  the  endless  merging  of  whitecaps  there 
was  no  discovering  that.  "Not  that  I  care  where 
it  hit,  blast  ye — ye'll  never  stop  me  now — for — 
hide  under  the  rail  you,  Tim,  with  the  rest — I'm 
after  some  of  you."  And  he  headed  the  Ligonier 
straight  for  the  windward  jack,  which  now  he 
could  see  was  that  of  the  trader  Lackford,  whose 
round-shouldered  figure  in  the  bow  betrayed 
him. 

"Out  of  my  way!"  roared  Leary  before  he 
realized  that  he  was  too  far  away  to  be  heard 
against  the  whistling  squall.  "But  you'll  hear 
me  well  enough  soon,"  he  muttered.  "And,  Tim, 
so  long  as  you  won't  hide  away,  stand  by  that  old 
fog-buster,  and  be  sure  to  have  the  lanyard  long 
enough  to  let  you  hide  behind  the  forem'st,  for 
there's  no  telling — the  old  antiquity  might  ex- 
plode. I  don't  s'pose  she's  been  shot  off  this  ten 
years.  When  I  give  the  word,  now — but  wait, 
wait  yet!"  For  a  flying  moment  he  brought  the 
Ligonier 's  head  into  the  wind.  "Now!" 

Boom!  It  made  more  noise  than  a  modern 
192 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

six-inch.  They  could  see  the  long  lead  go  skipping 
under  the  bow  of  the  trader's  jack. 

" Heave  to!"  roared  Leary,  "or  the  next  one 
goes  aboard."  No  question  but  they  could  hear 
him  now.  "Heave  her  to,  I  say!  Ay,  that's 
right.  Load  the  old  lady  again,  Tim.  And  now" 
— his  voice  rose  high  again — "you'd  better  ail 
heave  to,  and  stand  aside,  for  this  one's  bound 
out,  and  '11  come  blessed  handy  to  cuttin'  in 
two  whatever  gets  in  her  way." 

And  they  luffed,  twenty-odd  sail  of  them,  with 
six  to  eight  men  aboard  each,  and  stood  to  atten- 
tion while  the  Ligonier >  with  her  crew's  inquisitive, 
grinning  faces  poked  above  her  rail,  came  tearing 
up  and  by. 

"And  now  let  be  your  batteries,  Tim, -and  run 
the  ensign  to  the  peak."  Which  was  done;  and 
passed  on  in  glory  did  the  Ligonier^  the  old  six- 
pounder  adorning  one  rail,  a  swish  of  white  foam 
burying  the  other,  the  colors  aloft,  and  Sam  Leary 
singing  war-songs  to  the  wheel.  And  perfectly 
happy  would  he  have  been  only  the  snow  was 
thickening  and  no  Bess  in  sight.  But  maybe  she 
had  got  safely  home.  Maybe.  And  just  then 
came  from  aloft: 

"There's  a  little  white  sloop — an'  some  one  in 
it — at  Shark's  Fin  Ledge  a'most." 

"Break  out  that  gaff  tops'l,  fellows — and  you, 
193 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

Tim,  go  aloft  and  point  the  way — and  hurry,  afore 

the  snow  comes." 

"Point  the  way  to  what,  Sammie?" 
"For  a  little  white  sloop  with  a  girl  in  it." 
"Ho-oh— that's  it,  is  it?" 


IV 

Bess  had  curled  herself  up  and  was  falling 
asleep;  and  her  last  sleep  it  would  have  been  but 
for  the  boom  of  a  small  gun  and  the  hail  of  a 
familiar  voice.  She  stood  up.  Again  a  hail. 
And  through  the  curtain  of  white  it  came  almost 
atop  of  her,  the  grandest  schooner  ever  was !  The 
long  lines  of  her  seemed  familiar.  Then  a  clearer 
glimpse.  Ay,  she'd  know  her  anywhere — by  the 
rust  on  her  jumbo  she  would — the  Ligonier.  And 
then  it  swept  on  by — ay,  sailing  as  a  wild  gull. 

Out  of  sight  it  went  in  the  snow-squall,  but 
leaving  a  voice  in  its  trail. 

"Bessie!     Bessie!"  it  called. 

And  now  no  schooner  at  all.  Gone  it  was. 
And  she  remembered  that  that  was  the  way  of  it 
— the  beautiful  picture  afore  they  went  at  last. 
But  soon  again  the  sweep  of  the  great  white  sails 
and  the  black  body  beneath.  And  the  beautiful 
handling  of  her!  "Seamen,  them!"  said  Bess  ad- 

194 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

miringly,  and  then  alongside  it  came — beautiful, 
beautiful. 

Then  two  arms  scooped  down  and  swept  her 
over  the  rail  of  the  lovely  big  American  schooner. 
A  strong  arm  and  a  voice.  "Oh,  Bessie!  Bessie! 
and  the  big,  warm,  foolish  heart  of  you!"  said  the 
voice,  and  the  arms  carried  her  below  and  wrapped 
her  in  blankets  and  poured  hot  coffee,  mugs  of  it, 
down  her  throat,  and  laid  her  in  a  bunk,  while  he 
sat  on  the  locker  and  looked — just  looked  at  her. 

"Ah-h,  Sammie!"  murmured  Bess  blissfully. 
"An*  now  you'll  bring  me  home,  Sammie?" 

"Ay,  home,  Bess." 

"Ah-h!  An'  my  mother'll  no  ha'  to  cry  for 
me,  arter  all.  An'  father,  too,  he'll  ha'  no  cause 
to —  Ah-h,  God  love  you,  Sammie." 

By  the  light  of  the  kerosene  lamp  in  John  Lowe's 
kitchen  sat  John  Lowe  reading  his  favorite  vol- 
ume, harrowing  tales  of  religious  persecution  cen- 
turies agone.  And  Mrs.  Lowe  sat  rocking  herself 
by  the  stove1.  Every  once  in  a  while  she  would 
hide  her  head  in  her  skirt,  and,  on  withdrawing 
it,  wipe  her  eyes. 

Now  and  again  she  would  sigh  wearily.  "Too 
harsh,  too  harsh  we  were  on  the  lass.  The  blood 
runs  warm  at  her  age." 

Whereat  John  Lowe  would  turn  and  look  fix- 

195 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

edly  at  her,  open  his  lips  as  if  to  say  something 
but,  always  without  speaking,  refix  his  attention 
on  the  fine  black  print  before  him. 

A  knock  on  the  door  and  a  tall  man  in  oilskins 
and  sea-boots  entered.  "I've  come  to  say — " 
he  began:  but  by  then  John  Lowe  was  on  his 
feet. 

"Captain  Leary  is  it?" 

"Captain  Leary  it  is." 

"Then,  I've  this  to  say  to  you,  Captain 
Leary " 

"Hush,  John.  Captain" — beside  her  husband 
Mrs.  Lowe  stood  trembling — "Captain  Leary, 
we've  a  little  girl — an'  the  story's  around  the 
bay- 

Leary  raised  a  hand.  "I  know,  ma'am;  I 
know.  Your  daughter,  Mrs.  Lowe,  she's  safe. 
Yes,  John  Lowe,  safe — in  every  way  safe.  No 
thanks  to  me,  but  to  herself.  And  she  and  me, 
we're  going  to  be  married.  Yes,  ma'am,  married. 
Don't  look  so  hard,  man.  You're  thinkin'  now, 
I  know — you're  thinkin'  it's  a  poor  pilot  I'll  be 
for  her  on  life's  course?" 

"Ay,  I'm  thinkin'  so,  captain,  and  not  afeard 
to  say  it — I  fear  no  man.  Ay,  a  poor  compass." 

"Compass?  There — a  fine  word,  compass.  But 
the  compass  itself  that  'most  every  one  thinks  is 
so  true,  John  Lowe,  we  have  to  make  allowances 

196 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

for  it,  don't  we?  And  after  we've  made  the  al- 
lowances, it's  as  though  it  never  pointed  anywhere 
but  true  north,  isn't  it?  There's  only  one  circle 
on  the  ocean,  John  Lowe,  where  a  compass  don't 
veer,  but  every  ship  can't  be  always  on  that  line. 
And  even  when  you're  sailin'  that  one  circle,  John 
Lowe,  there's  sometimes  deviations.  And  me — no 
doubt  I  have  my  little  variations  and  deviations." 

"Ay,  no  doubt  o'  that,"  muttered  John  Lowe. 

"Ay,  like  everything  and  everybody  else,  John 
Lowe.  But  at  last  I've  got  to  where  I  think  I 
know  what  little  allowances  to  make.  I  think  so. 
And  after  we've  made  our  little  allowances,  and 
we  c'n  make  'em  in  advance  same's  if  we  took  it 
from  a  chart,  why — there's  Sammie  Leary  as  true 
as  the  next  one." 

Mrs.  Lowe  laid  her  hand  on  the  American's 
arm.  "And  Bess,  captain;  where  is  she?" 

"Outside,  Mrs.  Lowe,  with  Tim.  And  she's 
waiting." 

"Waiting  for  what?" 

"To  be  asked  inside.    Will  I  call  her?" 

"Call  her,  captain — call  her." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Lowe,  but — "  Leary  faced  the 
man  at  the  table. 

"Oh,  well"— John  Lowe  sighed.  "No  doubt 
you  ha'  the  right  o'  it,  captain.  You're  one  who 
ha*  sailed  many  courses,  an'  your  navigation,  'tis 

197 


Leary  of  the  "Ligonier" 

possible,  is  better  than  mine.     Call  her,  captain, 
call  her." 

Next  morning,  for  all  the  bay  to  see,  the  cur- 
tains in  John  Lowe's  house  were  raised  high. 


198 


HOW  THEY  GOT  THE  "  HATTIE 
RENNISH  " 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie 
Rennish" 

ON  the  word  being  passed  that  Alec  Corning 
was  back  from  the  West  Coast,  a  few  remi- 
niscent friends  went  to  hunt  him  up,  and  found 
him  in  the  Anchorage,  in  a  back  room  overlooking 
Duncan's  wharf;  and  Alec  was  agreeable,  over  a 
social  glass  and  a  good  cigar,  to  explain  how  it 
came  he  was  back  in  Gloucester. 

"If  they'd  only  let  us  alone  I'd  'a'  got — and 
Archie  Gillis  too — good  and  rich." 

"Rich,  Alec?    You  rich?" 

"Well,  maybe  not  quite  rich,  for  that,  o'  course, 
would  call  for  saving,  but  certainly  I'd  had  a  roll 
to  spend  before  I  was  done — if  only  they'd  let 
us  alone.  But  would  they?  Man,  the  meddlers 
they  were! — the  brass-buttoned,  steam-winched 
buttinskis!" 

"But  if  that  is  their  business,  Alec?" 

"M-m — maybe.  But  Russians,  English,  Japs — 
yes,  an'  American  cutters  and  gunboats  before 
they  were  done — you  ought  to  seen  them!" 

\    201 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

Alec  paused,  but  only  for  a  quick  breath.  "We 
had  the  finest  little  scheme  of  sealing  till  they  took 
to  hunting  us.  Up  and  down  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  sealing-grounds  they'd  up  and 
chase  us  whenever  they'd  get  word  of  us — from 
the  Japan  coast  back  by  way  of  the  Aleutians — 
clear  down,  one  time,  a  pair  of  'em,  till  we  had 
to  put  in  behind  Vancouver  Island  and  hide  the 
Hattie  behind  a  lot  o'  screen  boughs." 

Alec  paused;  this  time  for  a  longer,  an  almost 
reflective,  breath.  "That  being  their  business, 
p'r'aps  they  were  all  right;  but  ain't  it  a  fine 
thing  when  a  gang  wants  to  go  seal-hunting  that 
a  lot  o'  gover'ment  people  must  specify  where 
they  can  kill  'em,  and  when  ? — and  they  swimmin' 
the  wide  ocean  as  the  Lord  intended!  And  our 
little  vessel — the  Hattie  Rennish  when  she  used 
to  go  fresh  halibutin'  out  o'  here — remember 
her?" 

There  were  several  who  heartily  remembered 
the  fast  and  able  Hattie. 

Presently,  letting  the  elevated  front  legs  of  his 
chair  drop  to  the  floor,  Alec  rested  one  forearm 
on  the  table  and  went  on  to  tell  of  how  at  last 
they  got  the  Hattie  Rennish. 

"'Twas  a  Californian  man  named  Trumbull 
bought  the  Hattie  when  she  was  fresh  halibutin' 
out  o'  Gloucester.  A  good  sort  of  a  man,  and 

202 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

'twas  him  got  me,  with  Archie  Gillis  for  mate,  to 
bring  her  'round  to  Frisco. 

"  But  the  time  I'm  going  to  speak  of,  the  Hattie 
— painted  green  she  was,  and  called  the  Pioneer 
— was  lay  in'  into  Seattle,  when  a  chap  comes 
aboard  with  a  letter  from  Trumbull  to  me  ex- 
plaining that  certain  aspects  of  the  sealing  busi- 
ness 'd  been  taking  on  a  serious  look  to  him  lately 
and  he'd  sold  the  Hattie,  and  the  party  who'd 
bought  her,  letter  herewith,  might  want  to  do 
business  with  me. 

"The  looks  of  the  new  owner  didn't  warm  me 
toward  him  in  the  start-off.  Looks,  of  course, 
ain't  everything,  but  when  you  don't  know  much 
about  a  man  you  got  to  go  a  lot  by  his  looks. 
Yes,  you  sure  have.  And  I'd  seen  him  before, 
joy  cruisin'  on  the  Barbary  Coast  one  night  with 
a  lot  of  drunken  sailors — only  he  wasn't  drunk. 
And  I  knew  what  he  was — some  Chinese  blood 
in  him,  and  the  name  o'  being  a  slick  one.  But 
I  didn't  say  anything  about  that.  Gratu'tously 
telling  a  man  you  don't  like  him  don't  lay  you  up 
to  wind'ard  any.  No.  And  we  sat  down  and 
he  explains  what  he  wanted.  There  was  a  con- 
signment of  a  few  bales  of  hemp  waiting  up  on 
the  British  Columbia  coast,  and  would  I  run  the 
Hattie  over  and  slip  back  with  'em?  And  we'd 
have  to  leave  right  away. 

203 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

"Well,  I  would — after  a  talk.  And  with  Archie 
Gillis  and  a  few  hoboes  that  called  themselves 
sailors,  which  I'd  picked  up  in  Jack  Downing's 
place  in  Seattle,  we  put  out.  Archie  was  mate 
and  to  get  two  hundred  dollars  and  me  five 
hundred. 

"It  was  a  fine  night,  that  night,  and  we  put 
out  into  the  sound  and  worked  our  way  up 
through  the  islands,  and  the  second  morning 
later  slips  into  a  little  cove  behind  some  high 
hills  with  trees  along  the  banks — in  Georgia 
Strait.  Twenty-four  hours  we  lay  there,  and 
then  we  hears  a  steamer's  wheel,  but  we  don't 
see  her;  only  a  couple  of  hours  later  the  owner 
comes  for  me  in  a  big  ship's  quarter-boat,  and  we 
work  the  Hattie  over  to  a  little  island  where  we 
find  a  lot  of  bales  wrapped  in  burlap  and  hid  in 
a  cook's  shack. 

"'That  all?'  I  asks  my  new  owner — Durks  his 
name. 

"'Oh,  yes — there's  a  couple  o'  Chinamen  here. 
But  let's  see — where  are  they?'  He  looks  around. 
'They're  not  here — strolling  in  the  woods  some- 
where. We'll  take  them  along,  too,'  he  says. 
'You  won't  mind  that,  will  you?' 

"Now  there  was  nothing  in  the  contract  about 
Chinamen,  and  I  didn't  like  the  notion  of  him 
working  'em  aboard  in  that  way,  but  I  said  all 

204 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

right  and  soon  as  dark  came  we'd  roll  'em  aboard 
and  put  out. 

"Well,  the  boss  and  I  sits  down  to  lunch  in 
the  cook-house,  and  by  and  by,  with  nothing  to 
do  but  wait  for  dark,  we  stroll  around  the  island. 
Now  I'm  no  wizard  in  anything,  but  I  always 
did  have  a  good  ear.  And  no  harm  at  all,  a 
good  ear,  when  you  got  to  do  most  of  your  own 
watching  out.  Before  we'd  gone  far  I  knew  some- 
body was  trailing  me  and  the  new  owner.  I 
could  hear  steps  behind  us  an'  dead  twigs  snap- 
ping and  somebody  shoving  aside  branches,  and 
once,  when  we  stopped  for  a  talk  on  the  edge  of 
a  clearing,  I  knew  I  heard  somebody  breathing 
just  behind  the  bushes  which  was  hanging  over 
the  logs  we  were  sitting  on. 

"Now  I  knew  that  this  Durks  wasn't  very  pop- 
ular in  the  quarters  where  he  did  business,  and 
*s  I  wasn't  aching  to  have  any  Chinese  tong  man 
hit  me  over  the  head  with  any  hatchet  by  mis- 
take in  a  shaded  wood,  I  just  naturally  fell  out  of 
step  and  lost  him,  and  being  some  trailer  myself, 
I  took  to  trailing  whoever  it  was  'd  been  trailing 
me  and  Durks,  and  by  and  by  I  come  up  behind 
him,  and  when  I  do  I  grip  him  where  he  won't 
make  too  much  noise  nor  do  me  too  much  harm 
till  I  let  him.  He  wasn't  a  very  big  chap,  nor 
any  too  strong,  and  I  sets  him  down  on  the  near- 
est old  tree  trunk  and — 'What  is  it?J  I  asks. 

205 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

"He  looks  at  me  and  shakes  his  head  and  says, 
'No  sabby,'  and  I  looks  at  him  and  I  shakes  my 
head  and  says:  'Oh,  yes,  you  do,  Johnnie  Sing. 
I  wasn't  wearing  any  whiskers  when  I  used  to 
meet  you  in  Wall-Eye  Bunsen's  place.  I've  cul- 
tivated them  for  protective  purposes  only,  to  hide 
my  face  but  not  my  intelligence — so  you  just 
overlook  them  and  try  and  recollect  Alec  Corning. 
Now  what  d'  y'  say?' 

"'Halloo,  Captain  Corning!'  he  says;  and,  no 
pretending,  he  was  glad  to  see  me. 

"'Whitely,'  I  says— 'Bill  Whitely  when  you 
say  it  out  loud.  What's  your  trouble,  Johnnie?' 
And  so  you  c'n  all  get  it  right,  I  ought  to  say 
first  that  Johnnie  Sing  was  a  sort  of  Americanized 
Chinaman,  who  the  last  time  I'd  seen  him  was 
inquiring  if  he  couldn't  become  a  real  American 
some  way.  He'd  been  born  in  Lima  on  the  West 
Coast,  where  there's  a  big  colony  o'  Chinamen, 
and  he  was  part  Chinese,  the  rest  of  him  Peru- 
vian Indian.  A  Christian,  too,  he  was;  which 
I'm  not  putting  up  as  being  for  or  against  him, 
except  so  you'll  see  he  had  as  much  right  to  be 
a  Christian  as  anything  else.  His  mother  was 
Christian,  and  so  it  wasn't  like  as  if  he  had  turned 
against  his  own  to  get  on  in  the  world. 

"Johnnie  was  a  good  sort,  and  he'd  made  a 
few  dollars  in  the  tea  business,  and  so  maybe 
ought  to  'a'  been  happy.  But  he  wasn't.  There 

206 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

was  an  old  Chinaman,  and  not  too  old  either, 
who'd  married  a  Finn  woman  came  off  a  wrecked 
Norwegian  bark.  They  ran  a  laundry  together, 
and  by'n'by  they  came  on  to  Frisco  and  ran  a 
laundry  there.  And  Johnnie  followed  them.  A 
good  woman,  and  she  died  leaving  a  well-grown 
little  girl,  and  by'n'by  the  old  fellow  he  figures 
he's  made  enough  and  goes  back  to  have  a  look 
at  China.  But  no  sooner  there  than  he  learns 
he  won't  live  very  long,  and  he  writes  Johnnie  of 
it,  or  maybe  it  was  the  girl  did,  her  and  Johnnie 
having  been  always  about  three-quarters  in  love 
with  each  other.  And  Johnnie  he  cruises  over  to 
China,  and  the  old  fellow,  savvying  how  things 
are,  says  all  right,  marry,  and  they  get  married, 
and  he  gives  'em  his  blessing  and  lays  down  and 
dies.  A  good  old  scout,  Johnnie  said,  and  I  guess 
he  was. 

"Well,  everything's  fine,  only  Johnnie  wants  to 
come  back  and  live  in  the  United  States,  and  the 
girl  too.  She  was  sixteen  years  old  when  she  left 
California,  and  a  woman's  life  in  the  United  States 
looked  a  lot  better  to  her  than  in  this  land  of  one- 
half  her  ancestors.  So  she  and  Johnnie  takes  a 
steamer  to  Vancouver,  and  they  get  there  all  right; 
but  not  till  they  got  there  did  either  of  them  hap- 
pen to  think  that  they  were  foreigners  and  barred 
as  Chinese  from  coming  into  the  United  States. 

207 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

Which  was  a  pity,  they  being  pretty  white  and  so 
strong  for  everything  American.  Anyway,  John- 
nie writes  to  Trumbull,  my  old  boss,  to  see  what 
he  could  do,  and  after  ten  days  or  so  Durks 
happens  along  and  bumps  into  Johnnie  and  is 
surprised  as  you  please  to  see  him,  and  Johnnie 
tells  him  his  story,  and  Durks  tells  him  not  to 
worry  about  that — that  he'd  smuggle  him  and 
his  wife  across  in  a  schooner  he'd  just  bought. 
They  would  take  a  little  coast  steamer  and  meet 
her  a  few  hours  up  the  coast,  and  then  across  the 
sound  to  Seattle — 'twould  be  the  easiest  thing 
ever  you  see. 

"And  there  they  were,  Johnnie  and  his  wife, 
and  when  he  got  that  far  in  his  story  Johnnie 
stops  and  looks  up  at  the  sky  most  mournful-like. 
Springtime  it  was,  mind  you,  and  fine  weather, 
with  the  sun  shining  and  the  waters  of  the  inlet 
rolling  up  on  the  rocks  gentle-like,  and  the  first 
of  the  birds  were  up  from  the  south  and  singing 
and  chirping,  and,  I  s'pose,  nesting  overhead — a 
bran'-new  spring  day  in  a  piny  grove  on  a  pretty 
little  island  off  the  coast  of  British  Columbia, 
when  anybody  should  'a'  been  happy,  'specially 
with  a  new  young  wife. 

"'Well,  what's  wrong — what  you  so  blue  about?' 
I  asks  Johnnie  when  he'd  got  through  squinting 
up  the  tree  branches  to  the  sky. 

208 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

"And  he  tells  me  how  after  his  wife  was  aboard 
the  steamer  which  'd  brought  'em  to  this  place  she 
sees  Durks  and  tells  Johnnie  how  Durks  came 
near  kidnapping  her  one  time — before  she  went 
back  to  China  with  her  father.  Her  father  and 
Durks  had  a  terrible  row  over  it.  Her  father 
near  killed  Durks  with  a  hatchet.  And  now  here 
was  Durks  turning  up  in  this  accidental  way;  too 
accidental  altogether — for  Durks.  He  would  steal 
her  or  something,  and  once  he  got  her  into  San 
Francisco  they  could  be  swallowed  up  with  her. 
Huh — a  Chinese  row,  the  police  would  say,  and 
not  bother  too  much.  Not  like  stealing  an  Amer- 
ican girl.  'And  if  he  gives  me  over  to  the  police, 
I  am  not  an  American  citizen — out  of  the  country 
I  must  go/  winds  up  Johnnie. 

"Terrible  downcast  is  Johnnie  Sing,  but  I  stands 
him  on  his  feet  and  tells  him  to  cheer  up.  Durks 
was  head  of  the  expedition,  yes,  and  paying  the 
bills,  yes;  but  me,  Alec  Corning,  was  skipper  of 
the  Hattie.  'Go  down  and  tell  your  little  wife 
that  everything'll  be  all  right,'  says  I — 'that  Alec 
Corning'll  be  on  the  job.  Where  is  she?' 

"She  is  here,'  he  says,  and  whistles,  and  out 
from  the  brush  steps  a  cute  little  girl  dressed  like 
a  man,  and  with  a  hard  hat  to  make  her  look  all 
the  more  like  a  man.  Johnnie  lifted  the  little 
hat,  and  under  it  she  has  a  lot  of  yellow-ash  hair 

209 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

coiled  up  where  a  reg'lar  Chinaman  'd  have  only 
a  black  pigtail. 

' '  Don't  let  on  to  Durks  either  of  you  ever  saw 
me  in  your  life,'  I  advises  'em,  'and  when  it's 
time  to  go  aboard  the  vessel  you  go.' 

"And  they  went  aboard  with  what  Durks  says 
was  bales  of  hemp;  and  we  put  out  that  night  in 
open  water,  and  next  day  threading  inside  pas- 
sages so  far  as  we  could.  Another  night  and 
another  morning  found  us  in  Puget  Sound,  and 
there  on  a  little  neck  of  land  on  the  American 
shore  we  hoisted  our  load  of  hemp  onto  a  little, 
rough-made  wooden  pier.  A  narrow-gauge  track 
ran  up  from  the  pier,  and  standing  on  the  track 
was  a  hand  flat  car. 

"'Now,'  says  Durks,  'I  will  pay  off  these  men, 
so  they  won't  be  hanging  around  and  possibly 
talking  too  much  before  we  get  clear.'  And  he 
did — ten  dollars  to  the  hands  and  fifteen  to  the 
cook,  and  a  silver  dollar  all  around  for  car-fare. 
And  they  went  ashore,  he  telling  them  where 
they  would  find  a  little  branch  station  about  a 
mile  up  the  road  to  take  them  to  Seattle.  And 
so  we  got  through  with  them. 

"He  himself  goes  ashore  after  they're  out  the 
way,  and  stays  an  hour  or  so,  and  when  he's 
back,  'How  about  paying  off  me  and  my  mate 
now?'  I  asks. 

210 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

'You  take  the  schooner  to  a  little  place  west 
of  here  and  then  I'll  pay  you  both  off/  he  an- 
swers. 

"And  how  about  landing  those  two  passen- 
gers?' I  asks. 

"No,  no,  don't  land  them  here/  he  says. 
'Somebody  might  see  them  and  pounce  on  us  for 
landing  them.  Keep  them  aboard  for  a  while — 
to  the  next  anchorage/ 

"And  we  put  out  late  in  the  morning  then,  and, 
there  being  no  wind,  'twas  in  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  before  we  came  to  anchor  in  a  little 
harbor  about  five  miles  from  where  we  landed 
the  cargo.  And  we'd  hardly  been  there  when  an 
American  gunboat  comes  to  anchor  just  off  our 
hiding-place,  and  Archie  and  me  we  looks  at  each 
other,  but  don't  say  anything. 

"And  Durks?  He's  terribly  surprised  at  the 
sight  of  the  gunboat — terribly.  By  and  by  he 
stops  walking  the  deck  and  says  to  me:  'I  have 
a  plan,  captain.  I  will  go  aboard  that  gunboat 
and  find  out  what  they  want  here.  If  they  think 
there  is  anything  wrong  about  us,  I  will  invite 
them  to  come  aboard  and  look  us  over.  What 
do  you  say  to  that?' 

"I  didn't  say  anything  to  it,  but  'What  will 
become  of  me  and  my  wife — I  paid  you  five  hun- 
dred dollars  for  us?'  pipes  up  Johnnie  Sing. 

211 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

"Why' — and  Durks  smiles — 'that  is  easy. 
You  can  hide — oh,  where  now?  Why,  of  course, 
in  the  lazaretto.  And  your  wife  in  a  locker  some- 
where that  Captain  Corning  will  pick  out  for  her. 
They  will  not  look  far,  even  if  they  shall  suspect 
us — they  will  think  we  would  have  fifty  or  a  hun- 
dred aboard  or  none  at  all.  So  they  will  not 
look  into  every  corner.  If  you  both  hide  away 
somewhere  everything  will  be  all  right.' 

"Johnnie  is  uneasy,  but  I  nods  my  head  to 
him  on  the  sly,  and  he  says  all  right  and  goes 
below  with  his  wife.  And  making  sure  they  are 
below,  Durks  turns  to  me  and  hands  over  five 
hundred  to  me,  and  to  Archie  two  hundred  dol- 
lars. And  he  shows  us  another  five  hundred  and 
says:  'And  this  will  be  for  you  two  to  divide 
as  you  please  when  I  get  Johnnie  Sing  away  from 
the  ship  and  the  girl  is  left  behind.  What  do 
you  say?' 

"And  I  looks  over  at  the  five  hundred  and 
says,  'It  looks  pretty  good';  and  Archie  he  looks 
at  me  and  at  the  extra  money  and  says,  'It  looks 
pretty  good';  and  Durks  laughs  and  says,  'It  will 
feel  pretty  good,  too;  but  better  put  that  money 
out  of  sight,  hadn't  you,  captain — and  you  too, 
Mr.  Gillis?'  and  goes  off  in  the  big  quarter-boat — 
the  only  boat  we  had  aboard,  by  the  way. 

"No  sooner  was  he  gone  than  up  pops  Johnnie 
212 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

Sing  out  of  the  cabin  companionway.     'Captain/ 
he  says,  'must  I  hide  away?' 
"Can  you  swim?' 

"'A  little  bit.' 

"'A  little  bit?    Not  enough.     And  your  wife?' 

"From  over  his  shoulder  she  shook  her  head. 

"'Then  you  can't  swim  ashore,  can  you?  You 
got  to  stay  aboard,  that's  plain.  Well,  you  and 
your  wife  go  with  Mr.  Gillis,  who'll  stow  you  in 
a  place  he  knows  under  the  forec's'le  floor.  Nei- 
ther o'  you  bein'  too  tall  or  too  fat,  you  c'n  stow 
away  in  this  place  without  smotherin'  for  an  hour 
or  two.  We've  used  it  before.  Go  by  way  of 
the  cabin  and  through  the  hold  below  decks,  so 
if  anybody's  got  a  glass  on  us  from  the  gunboat 
they  won't  see  you.' 

"And  they  went,  she  crawling  behind  him  like 
a  little  mouse.  And  Archie  tucked  'em  away 
and  comes  on  deck,  looking  at  his  money  as  he 
comes — two  one-hundred-dollar  bills.  'Tuck  it 
out  o'  sight!'  Archie  was  sayin' — 'tuck  it  out  o' 
sight,  hah?'  And  the  more  he  looks  the  more 
doubtful  he  becomes,  and  I  looks  at  mine,  and  I 
get  a  magnifyin'  glass  from  my  dunnage  to  have 
a  closer  look,  and  sure  enough  it's  the  phony  kind 
of  money  men  like  Durks  used  sometimes  to  pass 
off  on  unsuspecting  Chinks  on  that  coast.  'John- 
nie Sing  tips  me  off  about  it  just  now,'  explains 
Archie  to  me. 

213 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

"And  while  we're  swearing  at  Durks  for  that, 
back  he  comes  with  a  young  officer  and  four 
armed  sailors.  The  officer  looks  at  me  and  says: 
'You  have  contraband  Chinamen  aboard  here?' 

"Well,  that  got  me.  I  looks  at  him,  and  then, 
thinking  of  the  phony  money,  I  looks  at  Durks. 
And  I  don't  answer. 

"'We  shall  have  to  search  the  ship,'  says  the 
officer. 

"Sure,'  I  says,  'search  away.' 

"And  they  went  and  dropped  straight  into  the 
cabin  and  made  for  the  lazaretto,  Durks  waiting 
and  whistling  to  himself  on  deck.  Pretty  soon 
the  officer  comes  up  and  reports  nobody  in  the 
lazaretto.  Durks  goes  up  in  the  air.  'Where  is 
he?'  he  says  to  me. 

"'He?    Who?' 

'"Johnnie  Sing.' 

"'What  you  talkin'  about?'  I  asks,  and  at  the 
same  time  Archie  carelessly  hauls  out  a  hundred- 
dollar  bill  and  lights  a  cigarette  with  it.  And 
Durks  suddenly  changes,  and  with  the  officer's 
permission  steps  with  me  into  the  cabin.  And 
the  first  thing  he  does  is  to  count  out  seven  hun- 
dred dollars  good  money  and  hand  it  to  me.  'I 
took  that  other  from  the  wrong  pile,'  he  says,  and 
smiles,  but  not  as  if  he  expects  to  be  believed. 
And  he  holds  out  another  five  hundred — good 

214 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

money — and  says,  'Where  are  they?'  And  I 
looks  wise  and  says,  'Suppose  that  Chink  gave 
me  a  thousand  to  get  'em  clear?'  'A  thousand? 
Well,  here — here's  a  thousand  when  you  turn  him 
over  to  me.  Where  are  they?' 

"And  I  whispered,  so  the  lockers  themselves 
couldn't  hear  me:  'They  swam  ashore  and  are 
hid  away.  To-morrow  morning  I  give  them  the 
signal  and  they'll  come  back  aboard.' 

"'Then,'  says  Durks,  'you  can  get  his  five 
hundred  and  my  thousand.  Will  that  satisfy  you?' 

"And  I  said  I'd  think  it  over,  and  we  went  on 
deck,  where  Durks  told  the  officer  there  might 
be  a  way  to  get  hold  of  the  contraband  China- 
men yet.  And  the  officer  eyes  us  both  and  finally 
says:  'You'd  better  both  come  with  me  to  the 
ship  and  make  it  clear  to  the  captain.  He  is 
now  up  the  Sound,  but  will  be  aboard  in  the 
morning.  And  we  went,  leaving  Archie  to  look 
after  the  vessel. 

"We  went  aboard  the  gunboat,  not  exactly 
under  guard,  but  just  so's  to  be  sure  we'd  be  there 
when  we  were  wanted.  It  was  now  getting  on 
toward  six  o'clock,  and  the  first  thing  meal  call 
blew,  and  up  steps  an  old  shipmate,  Ed  Gurney, 
and  invites  me  down  to  the  chief  petty  officers' 
mess  for  supper. 

"Ed  and  me  we'd  been  snapper-fishing  to- 
215 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

gether  in  the  Gulf  o'  Mexico,  on  the  Campeche 
Bank,  in  one  of  those  little  short  bowsprit  schoon- 
ers out  o'  Pensacola,  and  now  he  was  high-line 
marksman  of  the  ship,  wore  extra  marks  on  his 
sleeve  and  got  extra  money,  and  all  that  kind  o' 
stuff,  for  his  shooting.  Well,  Ed  always  could 
tell  an  oil-tanker  from  a  banana  steamer  as  far 
as  any  man  in  the  Gulf,  and  we  talked  of  those 
days  during  supper,  and  after  we'd  had  a  good 
smoke  we  walked  the  deck  together,  talking  of 
one  thing  and  another,  and  before  I  got  through 
I  told  him  all  about  the  scrape  I  was  in. 

"The  grab-all   snake!'   says  Ed.     'And  what 
you  goin'  to  do,  Alec?' 

"'My  name  is  Bill,'  I  answers;  'Bill  Whitely  if 
there's  anybody  likely  to  be  in  hearing.  But  I 
tell  you,  Ed,'  I  says,  'I  don't  like  the  notion  o' 
little  Johnnie  Sing  and  his  wife  getting  caught — 
or  separated.' 

"We  were  looking  over  the  side  then,  where  to 
the  boom  was  tied  a  string  of  small  boats,  our  big 
quarter-boat  to  the  end. 

"'What  do  you  know  about  this  fellow  Durks, 
Ed?'  I  said,  after  a  time. 

"'Nothing,'  he  said,  'except  that  he's  under 
suspicion  of  smuggling  opium  for  a  long  time. 
They  say  he's  money-mad  and  woman-mad,  and 
always  was.' 

216 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

"'So  I've  heard.  And  what's  his  game  here 
with  me?' 

"'It's  going  around  the  ship  that  you  ran 
away  with  his  schooner  and  smuggled  a  Chink 
aboard  unbeknownst,  but  that  he's  going  to  for- 
give you  if  you  hand  over  the  Chinaman  and 
so  put  him  right  with  the  Gover'ment.  He  didn't 
say  anything  about  any  woman.' 

"'He's  one  fine  gentleman,'  I  says.  And,  by 
'n'  by:  'Suppose  you  saw  somebody  was  trying 
to  slip  the  Hattie — the  Pioneer — out  by  you  in  the 
dark,  what  would  happen?' 

"'Happen?'  says  Ed.  'A  lot  o'  things.  And 
quick.  It'd  be  up  with  a  lot  of  three-inch  am- 
munition, and  some  high-rating  gun  pointer,  who's 
as  likely  to  be  me  as  anybody  else,  would  prob- 
ably have  to  use  you  for  a  little  target  practice.' 

'"And  you  c'n  lay  'em  pretty  close  aboard, 
can't  you,  Ed — strings  o'  bull's-eyes  at  six  and 
eight  and  ten  thousand  yards — hah?' 

"'I  have  landed  'em  as  close  as  that,'  says  Ed. 

"'But  an  old  shipmate,  Ed?'  I  says. 

"'Now,Alec- 

'"Bill— Bill  Whitely,' I  says. 

"'Well,  Bill  Whitely,  then,  though  you'd  better 
let  me  call  you  Alec.  I  think  I'd  shoot  a  bit 
wider  thinking  of  Alec  Corning  than  anybody 
named  Bill  Whitely.  If  you  don't  leave  me  any 

217 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

other  way  out  of  it,  I'd  maybe  keep  scraping  the 
paint  off  you  as  long  as  I  could.' 

'Your  idea  bein'  to  do  the  right  thing  by  the 
Cover' ment  in  the  end,  Ed?' 

"'That's  it,'  says  Ed. 

"Well,  Ed,'  I  says,  'if  you  should  happen  to 
see  such  a  thing  as  a  moving  picture  of  the  Hat- 
tie  stealin'  out  to  sea,  and  it's  up  to  you  to  bring 
her  to,  say  at  five  or  six  or  eight  thousand  yards, 
just  scrape  the  paint  with  the  first  two  or  three, 
will  you,  by  way  o'  telling  me  how  it's  you,  Ed  ? ' 

'"All  right,' says  Ed. 

"And  we  shook  hands  over  that.  'And  maybe 
the  Gover'ment  won't  be  losing  anything  at  that,' 
I  says. 

"After  a  time  Ed  Gurney  left  me  to  go  on  the 
night  watch,  and  I  was  standing  by  the  rail,  fig- 
uring how  I  was  going  to  get  back  to  the  Hattie, 
when  Durks  comes  looking  for  me. 

"Of  course,'  says  Durks,  'you  had  no  idea  of 
it,  but  I  organized  this  expedition  as  much  to 
get  Johnnie  Sing  out  of  the  way  and  separate 
him  from  his  wife  as  to  smuggle  in  the  cargo  of 
hemp.' 

"'The  duty  on  hemp,'  I  interrupts,  'must  be 
very  high,  Mr.  Durks.' 

"'What?     It  is— yes,'  he  says. 

"And  how  much  is  the  duty  on  hemp?'  I  asks. 
218 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

"And  he  don't  know.  'Hemp,  humph!'  I  says, 
'how  much  is  the  duty  on — ?'  and  I  stops. 

'"On  what?  'he  says. 

"On  whatever's  in  those  bales?'  I  answers. 

"'Why,  what  is  the  duty?'  he  asks. 

"Maybe  there's  no  duty — maybe  it's  against 
the  law  to  bring  it  in,  no  matter  what  the  duty,' 
I  answers. 

"And  he  sees  I  know  too  much,  and  from  out 
of  a  pocket  inside  his  vest  he  draws  a  package  of 
money  and  lets  me  look  to  see  how  much,  and  he 
says:  'Five  hundred  now  and  five  hundred  when 
you  turn  over  to  me  Johnnie  Sing — separate  from 
his  wife.' 

"If  I  could  get  back  on  the  schooner,'  I  says, 
like  I  was  studying  it  out,  'back  on  her  to-night, 
I'd  guarantee  I'd  have  Johnnie  Sing  aboard  her 
in  the  morning.' 

"But  how  can  you  get  off  this  ship?'  he  says. 

"Easy  enough,'  I  says.  'Nobody  here  cares 
whether  I  stay  aboard  or  get  away,  and  nobody's 
watching  me  too  close.  You  ask  the  executive 
officer's  permission  to  go  down  aboard  your  quar- 
ter-boat, swinging  from  the  boom  there,  by  way 
of  seeing  it's  all  right,  and  you  get  into  it  and 
look  it  over,  and  the  last  thing  you  do  before 
leaving  it  you  unfasten  the  painter  and  let  her 
go  adrift.  And  in  the  morning,  when  you  see  the 

219 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

Hattie,  Johnnie  Sing  and  his  wife  will  be  aboard 
— on  her  deck  in  plain  sight.  And  then  you  come 
and  get  'em.  But  you'll  have  to  come  and  get 
Jem  yourself — and  give  me  five  hundred  dollars 
now  on  account — good  money,  mind.'  And  he 
does — good  money. 

"And  while  he's  going  down  over  the  boom 
ladder  to  one  side  I'm  climbing  down  a  side  lad- 
der on  the  other,  and  soon  standing  on  the  last 
rung,  just  above  the  water-line,  and  waiting.  And 
pretty  soon  I  see  the  shadow  of  our  quarter-boat 
drifting  past  her  stern,  and  as  I  do  I  slips  over- 
board and  strikes  out  for  her,  quiet  and  mostly 
under  water,  because  I  had  my  clothes  on. 

"I  get  aboard  the  quarter-boat  and  I  let  her 
drift  till  maybe  I  am  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away, 
and  then  I  out  oars  and  heads  her  in  for  where 
I  can  see  the  Hattie 's  riding  light.  I  comes  along- 
side. Archie's  shape  looms  up  over  the  rail. 
'Hi-i!'  he  yells,  'keep  off!'  'It's  all  right,  Ar- 
chie,' I  says,  and  he  reaches  down  and  takes  the 
painter.  'What's  doing?'  he  says. 

"'Where's  Johnnie  Sing  and  his  wife?' 

'"She's  asleep  in  the  cabin  and  he's  awake 
watching  her.  What  you  going  to  do?' 

"'You  tell  Johnnie  here's  his  five  hundred 
passage  money  back,  will  you,  Archie?  And 
then  we'll  make  ready  to  skip  out  of  here.' 

220 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

"'Skip  out?     Not  enough  wind/  says  Archie. 

"'Not  now,'  I  says,  'but  there  will  be/ 

"'I  hope  so,'  says  Archie,  and  calls  Johnnie 
and  tells  him,  and  I  gives  him  his  money  which 
he  "didn't  want  to  take  but  had  to  and  we  slip 
her  chain  cable  but  left  her  riding  light  on  a  buoy 
in  case  the  gunboat  watch  were  having  an  eye 
on  her.  'And  now,'  I  says,  'to  that  lighter  where 
those  bales  of  hemp  are.' 

"'Hadn't  we  better  put  straight  for  the  open 
sound  and  head  to  sea,'  says  Archie,  'while  it's 
dark?  What  do  we  want  with  a  lot  o'  hemp?' 
growls  Archie. 

"'  We'll  go  after  the  hemp,  all  the  same,  Archie,' 
I  says. 

"It  took  us  three  hours  from  our  anchorage  to 
make  the  lighter,  where  the  hemp  was,  and  that 
made  it  midnight.  We  let  the  schooner  drift  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  off  the  little  pier,  and 
Archie  and  me  paddled  ashore  in  our  quarter-boat 
with  a  spare  lantern. 

"There  was  the  lighter,  but  no  bales  of  hemp. 
Up  on  the  pier,  about  two  hundred  yards,  we 
see  a  streak  of  light.  We  crept  up  to  that,  and 
through  a  pane  of  glass  high  up — me  standing 
on  Archie's  shoulders  to  get  a  look  through — was 
four  men  playing  cards,  with  money  and  a  bottle 
of  whiskey  and  a  kerosene  lamp  on  the  table. 

221 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

We  looked  around.  On  the  narrow-gauge  rail- 
road track  we  found  the  little  flat  hand-car,  and 
on  that,  under  a  tarpaulin,  were  the  bales  of  hemp. 

"We  crept  around  to  the  door  of  the  shack. 
By  feeling  we  saw  it  opened  out;  so  the  two  of 
us  felt  around  for  big-sized  stones,  a  hundred 
pounds  apiece,  or  so,  and  them  we  piled  in  front 
of  the  door,  fifteen  or  twenty  of  'em,  very  softly, 
and  then  I  whispers  to  Archie  to  hustle  the  flat 
car  along  to  the  pier. 

"And  he  did,  but  in  getting  started  the  car 
wheels  grinded  a  little,  and  somebody  inside  yells, 
'What's  that!'  and  again,  'Listen!'  and  then  I 
could  hear  one  of  'em  jumping  up  and  cursing 
and  swearing:  'What  started  her?'  Next  thing 
somebody  rattled  the  door-latch  and  pushed. 
And  pushed  again.  And  then — bam!  his  whole 
weight  against  the  door.  The  top  part  springs 
out,  but  the  bottom  half  sticks. 

"Then  there  was  a  quiet,  and  then  somebody 
said  something  quick,  and  I  could  hear  'em  all 
jumping  up  and  yelling  out,  and  they  came  pi- 
ling bang-up  for  the  door  and  slammed  against 
it,  but  the  big  stones  held  'em.  Then  they  stopped, 
and  one  of  'em  says:  'We're  locked  in  all  right.' 
'Yes,'  I  calls  out,  'and  you'd  better  stay  locked 
in,  for  the  first  man,  and  the  second  man,  and 
the  third  man  comes  out  the  door  he  gets  his. 

222 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

And  now,  men,'  I  calls  out,  'keep  that  door  cov- 
ered and  cut  loose  if  it's  knocked  open/  And 
then  I  hurried  after  Archie's  lantern,  which  I  see 
is  now  to  the  pier. 

"It  didn't  take  us  more  than  a  couple  o'  min- 
utes to  pitch  those  little  bales  off  that  car,  tote 
'em  across  the  lighter  and  drop  'em  into  our  quar- 
ter-boat. Then  we  rowed  out  to  our  vessel  and 
threw  them  over  the  rail  and  let  'em  lay  there 
amidships  till  we  could  get  a  chance  to  rip  'em 
open  and  see  what  we  got. 

"It  was  then  two  o'clock,  and  's  by  this  time 
the  breeze'd  made  a  bit,  I  was  hoping  we'd  slip 
by  the  gunboat  before  daylight.  And  we  did — 
almost;  but  not  far  enough  by.  Before  the  sun 
was  fair  up  they  saw  us  and  puts  after  us.  It 
took  her  a  few  minutes  to  get  under  way  and 
steam  up  on  her,  and  then  she  came  a-belting. 
Twelve  knots  she  was  probably  steaming,  but  by 
now  the  breeze  was  strong  enough  for  the  Hattie 
to  hold  her  own,  but  not  to  draw  away.  And 
soon  the  breeze  comes  stronger,  and  we  begin  to 
lengthen  and  draw  away  from  the  gunboat.  And 
it  breezed  up  more,  and  the  Hattie,  balloon  and 
stays'l  on  now,  and  taking  it  over  her  quarter, 
was  beginning  to  show  the  stuff  in  her. 

"She  was  lifting  her  forefoot  and  kicking  her 
way  through  like  she  knew  what  we  wanted.  We 

223 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

were  walking  away  from  the  gunboat,  and  I  was 
wondering  why  she  didn't  reach  out  for  us  with 
one  of  her  long  five-inch  lads.  But  I  see  why 
pretty  soon.  In  the  clearing  light  a  point  of  land 
shows  up  ahead  of  us,  making  out  maybe  a  couple  of 
miles  to  the  windward  of  our  course.  We  couldn't 
turn  out,  for  here  was  the  main  shore  and  there 
was  the  gunboat.  'And  a  pity,  too,'  I  says  to 
Archie,  'with  enough  opium  aboard  to  keep  us 
many  a  year.' 

"Archie'd  'most  forgot  the  bales.  'Cut  'em 
open,'  I  says  to  him,  and  he  did,  and  out  they 
come — six  or  eight  pound  tins  they  looked — dozens 
of  'em.  And  Archie,  looking  at  the  bright  shiny 
tins,  said,  'What  a  pity!'  again,  and  we  both  said 
what  a  pity  it  was,  too,  for  Johnnie  Sing  and  his 
wife.  'But  don't  you  worry  about  'em,'  I  says; 
'Nor  you  about  your  wife,'  I  says  to  Johnnie,  who 
was  looking  heart-broken,  with  his  arm  around  her. 

"All  the  time  we  were  hopping  on  toward  the 
point,  and  if  'twas  anything  but  a  steamer  with 
guns  was  chasing  us  we'd  'a'  squeezed  by,  and, 
once  by,  it  was  good  night  to  the  gunboat  or  any- 
thing like  her  in  that  breeze.  It  looked  that  way 
even  as  it  was,  till  a  shell  goes  skipping  across  the 
water  ahead  of  us.  In  half  a  minute  there  came 
another  one  astern.  There  wasn't  any  sea  on 
this  time — inshore  this  and  the  water  smooth,  and 

224 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

the  two  shells  had  a  fine  chance  to  show  how  they 
could  pile  up  little  hills  of  water  and  then  go  skip- 
ping across  the  surface,  making  quarter  circles  to 
the  right.  I  had  hopes,  a  few  hopes  yet.  For 
the  wind  was  still  there,  and  the  Hattie  she  had 
everything  on  her,  and  she  was  pirooting  'tween 
earth  and  sky  like  a  picnic  swing.  And  looking 
out  in  terror  was  Johnnie  Sing's  little  wife,  and 
I  was  saying  to  her:  'She's  all  right — she'll 
stay  up,  never  fear.' 

"Oh,  she'll  stay  up,'  says  Archie,  'if  one  of 
them  shells  don't  come  aboard,'  and  we  both 
eying  a  flash  o'  flame  that  just  then  came  out  the 
side  of  the  gunboat. 

'  'They're  only  fourteen-pounders,'  I  says. 

"'Is  that  all?'  says  Archie.  'Only  fourteen 
pounds  o'  nitroglycerine,  or  cordite,  or  dynamite, 
or  guncotton,  or  whatever  'tis  they  packs  into 
'em !  Only  fourteen  pounds ! — and  fourteen  ounces 
is  enough  to  send  the  Hattie  to  the  clouds  and 
eternal  glory  if  ever  it  comes  aboard,'  and  just 
then  one  came  right  under  her  forefoot  and  an- 
other under  her  counter.  And  I  looks  back  to 
the  gunboat.  She's  less  than  a  mile  away  now, 
and  I  takes  the  glasses  and  has  a  peek,  and  I 
imagines  I  sees  a  tall,  rangy  lad  standing  beside 
a  long,  slim,  steel-shiny,  needle-lookin'  gun,  and 
I  says  to  myself:  'Eddie  boy,  you  miss  us  about 

225 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

twice  more  and  Alec  Corning'll  be  buying  you 
more  than  one  drink  next  time  we  meet/  for  I 
knew  the  end  was  near.  Ahead  of  me  I  see  a 
passage  making  an  island  of  the  last  half  mile  o* 
that  point  o'  land,  and  it  looked  like  water  enough 
in  the  passage  to  let  the  Hattie  through. 

"I  calls  out  to  Archie  and  tells  him  to  heave 
the  tins  of  opium  into  the  quarter-boat,  and  he 
did,  and  'Now  get  into  her/  I  says,  'and  pull  for 
the  beach/  And  they  did,  me  staying  aboard  the 
Hattie  to  luff  her  for  them  to  get  away.  And 
then  I  cut  the  stays'l  free  and  gave  the  Hattie 
her  wheel  again,  and  when  she  was  going  full-tilt 
I  jibed  her  over,  and  she  had  everything  on,  and 
it  was  blowing  blue  devils,  and  only  one  thing 
you'd  think  could  happen  after  that  long  main- 
boom  went  swinging  across  her  deck — over  the 
side  had  to  go  her  spars.  But  they  didn't.  A 
twenty-two-inch  forem'st  she  carried,  a  great 
stick,  and  when  she  was  away  again  and  going 
straight  for  the  passage  I  says  to  myself:  'You'll 
have  to  hurry,  Ed  Gurney,  or  I'll  be  beating  you 
to  it!'  For  after  all,  when  you're  put  to  it,  Durks 
or  no  Durks,  there's  only  one  thing  to  do — try 
and  save  your  vessel. 

"The  Hattie  rushes  straight  for  the  passage,  and 
I  thought  maybe  she'd  make  it,  when  whing! 
whing!  whing!  you'd  think  somebody  was  try- 

226 


o   e« 

41 

C     60 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

ing  to  cut  his  initials  in  the  water  around  her. 
One  after  the  other,  like  somebody  having  fun 
with  her,  and  then  wr-r-t!  I  felt  her  shiver,  and 
then  she  seemed  to  shake  herself,  and  then  straight 
into  the  air  her  bowsprit  seemed  to  rise  and  point 
to  the  morning  sky,  and  from  out  of  her  waist 
came  flame  and  smoke.  Straight  on  and  up  the 
bowsprit  went,  and  down!  and  plump!  her  after- 
part  went!  and  flying  junks  of  one  thing  and  an- 
other filled  the  air,  and  some  smoke,  and  then  in 
the  sea  around  the  small  parts  that'd  blown  up 
began  to  fall.  But  I  wasn't  watching  them.  I 
was  watching  the  for'ard  half  of  her  as  it  went 
pitching  up,  the  bowsprit  making  a  quarter  circle 
in  the  air,  and  then  plunk!  down  and  under.  The 
great  little  Hattie  was  gone.  By  that  time  I  was 
in  the  water  reaching  out  for  the  quarter-boat. 

'"Too  bad,'  says  Archie,  'too  bad!'  when  I  was 
safe  in  her.  'Too  bad!'  he  says,  and  stops  row- 
ing. 'Pull,  you  sentimental  loafer;  pull  for  the 
beach!'  I  yells  at  him. 

"And  he  did,  and  we  all  did — all  but  Johnnie's 
wife — and  landed,  and  ran  up  and  hid  in  the 
brush  up  top  of  the  cliff,  and  lay  on  our  stomachs 
watching  the  gunboat  come  stealing  in  and  put 
off  a  steam-barge  and  grab  our  quarter-boat  with 
all  the  opium  in  it.  And  we  could  hear  Ed  Gur- 
ney  whoop  when  he  held  a  tin  of  it  aloft.  'Man, 

227 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

tons  of  it,  tons  of  it!'  Archie  swore  he  could  hear 
Ed  yelling,  and  we  guessed  that  would  square  him 
for  those  few  wide  shots.  And  then  they  headed 
back  and  went  aboard  the  gunboat,  and  pretty 
soon  she  steamed  off. 

f(  Vessel  and  opium  both  gone — I  wonder  how 
Durks  is  feeling  now,'  says  Archie;  'and  we  with 
his — but  how  much  is  it  altogether,  Alec?'  And 
that  reminded  me,  and  I  says  to  Archie,  'Where'd 
you  leave  your  two  hundred  dollars?'  and  he 
stops  and  swears.  He'd  left  it  under  his  mattress 
in  the  cabin  of  the  Hattie.  And  I'd  left  my  five 
hundred  hanging  up  in  my  coat  in  the  cabin  of 
the  Hattie,  and  there  she  was  in  ten  fathom  of 
water.  I  broke  the  news  to  Archie. 

"Archie  said  he'd  be  damned.  Then:  'How'll 
we  get  out  of  here?  For  we  gotta  go  east  after 
this,  Alec.' 

"And  Johnnie  Sing,  listening,  takes  the  five 
hundred  I'd  given  him  and  hands  it  to  me.  I  don't 
want  to  take  it,  and  he  says,  'Plenty  more — see,' 
and  with  his  jackknife  begins  opening  the  wadding 
of  his  coat,  and  out  come  bills  and  bills  and  bills. 
All  his  property,  twenty-odd  thousand  dollars, 
was  sewed  up  there  in  big  bills.  And  when  'twas 
all  out  he  offers  it  to  us,  telling  us  to  help  our- 
selves. And  Archie  and  me  said  no,  the  five 
hundred  would  do  us  to  pay  our  way  back  to 

228 


How  They  Got  the  "Hattie  Rennish" 

Gloucester  here,  and  meals  on  the  way,  o'  course. 
And  Johnnie,  by  our  advice,  he  comes  east,  too, 
with  his  little  wife,  and  stepped  off  in  New  York; 
and  that's  where  we  left  him. 

"A  fine  little  team,  Johnnie  and  his  wife.  And 
the  Hattie?  If  there's  any  of  you  never  seen  her, 
then  you  ought  to  when  she  was  alive.  A  great 
little  vessel,  the  Hattie  Rennish!'9 


229 


KILLORIN'S  CARIBBEAN  DAYS 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

REVOLUTIONS?  These  days?  In  those 
South  American  countries  ?  Sh-h,  boy,  sh-h 
— you  don't  know.  In  th'  old  gunboat  days  in 
the  Caribbeans  we  never  called  it  a  good  week 
'nless  we  suppressed  three  or  four.  And  at  that 
I  think  we  used  to  miss  some. 

Believe  me,  son,  those  were  the  days  when  they 
knew  how  to  revolutionize.  You'd  turn  in  of  a 
night  with  the  Blues  or  the  Reds  or  Greens,  in, 
and  have  breakfast  maybe  in  the  mornin'  with  the 
Purples  or  the  Violets  and  brass  bands  celebratin' 
the  vict'ry  in  the  Palace  square. 

And  the  first  thing  every  new  party  did  when 
they  got  in  was  to  start  up  the  Bureau  of  Printin' 
'nd  Engravin'  and  roll  off  a  few  billion  dollars  of 
gover'ment  money.  In  Guadalquique  the  money 
for  all  parties  was  the  same,  except  each  party 
used  to  rubber-stamp  its  name  across  the  face. 
An  old  navy  yeoman  hit  the  beach  there  one 
time  named  Tommie  Anderson  and  he  was  made 
chief  of  the  Bureau  o'  Printin'  'nd  Engravin'  by 
the  Greens  because  he  could  make  a  rubber  hand- 

233 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

stamp  while  they  waited.  Some  traitor  who  didn't 
get  his  'd  absconded  with  the  'ficial  one,  Tommie 
said. 

Of  course  that  kind  o'  work  tends  to  debilitate 
the  best  kind  o9  money.  In  Almatara,  which  was 
one  o*  the  best  little  revolutionary  countries  ever 
I  struck,  you  could  see  nigger  boot-blacks  shoot- 
in'  crap  for  two  or  three  thousand  dollars  a  throw 
of  a  holiday  in  the  market  square.  It  used  to 
cost  a  thousand  dollars  for  a  shine — that 's  a  first- 
class  shine  for  a  foreigner,  I  mean.  The  natives 
didn't  have  to  pay  that  much. 

Yes  sir,  son,  a  great  old  cruisin'-ground  in  the 
old  days,  the  Caribbeans,  and  fine  times  there, 
believe  me.  In  the  old  Hiawatha  we'd  be  layin' 
in  to  Kingston,  or  Havana,  or  Matanzas,  or  some 
port  along  there,  with  big  liberty  parties  ashore 
every  day,  when  word  'd  come  from  Washington 
tellin'  us  there  was  hell  to  pay  over  to  Guadal- 
quique,  or  Almatara,  or  somewhere  else,  and  for 
us  to  beat  it  over  there  and  sit  on  'em  before  they 
got  going. 

The  Hiawatha  she  was  a  good  old  gunboat 
ratin'  four  fourteen  and  two  six-pounders,  and, 
bein'  the  handiest  thing  in  the  fleet,  'twas  always 
her  they  detailed  for  those  little  revolutionary 
jobs,  and  aboard  her  we  got  so,  after  a  while,  we 
didn't  mind  the  report  of  a  new  revolution  any 

234 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

more  'n  you'd  mind  the  ringin'  of  the  cash-register 
in  a  barroom  up  here.  Sometimes  you'd  see  the 
skipper  showin'  signs  of  impatience,  rumplin'  his 
hair  and  rubbin'  his  chin  and  maybe  cussin'  a 
little;  but  he  always  ended  by  hurryin'  a  patrol 
party  ashore,  and  we'd  beat  up  the  grog-shops  V 
the  dance-halls  and  the  park  benches  and  hustle 
everybody  aboard,  and  the  chief  engineer  he'd 
rouse  out  a  couple  of  extra  stokers,  and  up  steam 
and  away  we'd  go. 

Foolish  things — revolutions  ?  Maybe.  But  peo- 
ple who  say  no  good  can  come  out  o'  revolu- 
tions, they  don't  know.  I  got  rank  an'  fortune 
out  of  a  revolution  one  time.  Yes,  sir,  me,  Kil- 
lorin,  bosun's  mate,  second  class,  U.  S.  N.,  and 
on  my  first  Caribbean  cruise  it  was,  and — but  I'll 
get  to  the  rest  of  it.  When  I  was  drafted  to  the 
Hiawatha  on  the  Caribbean  station  I  had  _what 
you  might  call  only  a  virgin  notion  of  revolu- 
tions. My  first  enlistment  was  'most  run  out, 
and  I  was  looking  to  be  put  aboard  some  home- 
bound  ship,  but  I  was  still  on  the  Hiawatha  when 
she  was  told  to  jog  along  over  to  Tangarine,  a 
bustling  young  republic  which  was  beginnin'  to 
make  a  name  for  itself  in  the  revolutionary  way. 

Whatever  they  were  doin'  we  were  to  stop  it. 
That  was  the  Monroe  Doctrine,  the  officers  said. 
And  so  we  put  over  there,  but  we  didn't  stop  it. 

235 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

It  was  all  over,  with  the  Reds  in  an'  printin'  new 
money  and  postage-stamps  and  makin'  a  bluff  to 
collect  customs  fine  as  could  be  when  we  got  there. 

There  was  nothin'  to  keep  us  there,  but  it  was 
a  fruitful-lookin'  country  and  the  skipper  he 
thought  he  might  's  well  get  a  little  fresh  grub 
for  his  mess,  and  he  sends  me  ashore  to  do  the 
buyin*.  And  I  goes.  And  the  first  grocery  store 
I  come  to  I  says  to  the  man  behind  the  counter: 
"How  much  for  a  ham?"  And  he  says,  quick 
and  brisk,  "Four  thousand  dollars,"  and  I  was 
most  stunned,  but  I  manages  to  slap  a  five-dollar 
gold  piece  down  on  the  counter  and  I  says,  quick 
and  brisk  too:  "In  God's  name  gimme  a  bite  out 
of  it!"  An'  I  had  to  hire  two  coolies  to  wheel 
the  change  back  to  the  ship. 

Well,  the  money  values  of  that  Tangarine  place 
had  me  mesmerized,  and  when  my  time  ran  out 
a  few  weeks  later  I  settles  up  with  the  paymaster 
and  stands  by  to  go  over  the  side  with  my  bag. 
The  skipper  he  says:  "Killorin,  I'll  be  over  here 
by'n'by  and  take  you  off.  And  you'll  be  glad 
to  come,  I'll  wager."  And  I  says,  "Thank  you, 
sir,  but  this  is  the  dolsee  far  nanity  country  for 
me.  With  the  number  o'  gold  pieces  I  got  in  my 
pants  pocket  I  oughter  be  able  to  pass  the  rest 
o'  my  days  here,"  and  with  my  big  ticket  and 
my  bag  I  hit  the  beach  in  Tangarine,  intendin'  to 

236 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

go  straight  to  the  palace  and  get  chummy  with 
the  new  President  first  thing. 

But  I  never  got  so  far  as  the  palace.  Not  that 
time.  About  a  quarter-mile  up  from  the  beach 
was  a  joyous-lookin'  hotel  with  shaded  verandas 
all  'round  and  a  banana  grove  in  the  yard,  and 
on  a  second  look  a  cantina  shinin'  with  mirrors 
and  glasses  and  colored  bottles  on  the  ground 
floor,  and  on  another  look  spacious-lookin'  suites 
o'  rooms  such  as  were  befittin'  to  senors  of  wealth 
and  leisure  on  the  floor  above.  And  over  these 
premises  I  cast  one  sailor-like  view,  and  through 
the  for'ard  gangway  of  that  glass-mounted  can- 
tina  I  hove  my  clothes-bag  and  myself  followed 
after.  There  was  also  a  roulette  wheel,  which 
didn't  hurt  the  looks  of  the  place  either. 

I  felt  so  right  to  home  that  I  anchored  right 
there — oh,  three  or  four  or  five  or  six  days;  maybe 
it  was  two  weeks;  but  anyway — all  that  don't 
matter — when  I  steadied  down  so's  to  reason  like 
the  man  o'  sense  my  skipper  always  used  to  say 
I  was  at  bottom,  I  was  down  on  the  beach  and 
it  was  early  in  the  mornin',  and  I  was  watchin' 
a  lemon-colored  sun  trying  to  rise  out  of  the 
smooth  Caribbean  sea,  and  I  was  wonderin'  where 
it  was  I'd  mislaid  my  clothes-bag.  I  could  ac- 
count for  everythin'  but  my  clothes-bag.  But  that 
don't  matter  either  now.  I  never  saw  it  again. 

237 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

And  while  I  sat  there,  not  feelin'  just  like  a 
high-score  gun-captain  after  target-practice,  I 
hears  a  light  step  behind  me,  and  pretty  soon  I 
could  feel  an  eye  looking  me  over,  and  by'n'by 
a  voice  said:  "A  ver-ry  fine  good  morning,  sir." 

"Is  it?"  I  says,  and  I  looks  up  to  see  who  the 
cheerful  party  is.  And  there  was  a  good-lookin', 
well-dressed,  young,  dark-complected  chap,  with  a 
little  bamboo  cane  which  he  kept  stickin'  into  the 
sand. 

And  he  looks  at  me  again  and  says,  plainly 
pleased  and  yet  a  little  sad,  too:  "The  Blues  are 
in."  And  I  says:  "That  so?  Since  when?"  And 
he  says:  "Since  last  nigh-it.  You  did  not  hear, 
the  revoloo-shee-onn  ? " 

And  I  says:  "I  didn't — I  must  'a'  been  takin' 
a  nap."  But  I  guessed  it  was  a  good  thing;  least- 
ways they  couldn't  be  any  worse  than  the  Reds 
— or  was  it  the  Yellow  chaps  were  in  last? 

"No  Yellow  in  Tangarine,"  he  says. 

"Ha,  ha!"  I  says— "an  authority." 

"No  Yellow — Blues  and  Reds  only.  And  as 
for  the  Reds,  bah!  But  the  Blues,  good — ver-ry 
good,"  and  he  pulls  the  cane  out  of  the  sand, 
lunges  at  the  air,  comes  to  a  present,  and  says: 
"I  salute  you,  sir."  And  I  said:  "And  I  al-so 
salute  you,  senor."  And  he  says:  "Americano?" 
And  I  said:  "You  betcher."  And  he  said:  "Of 

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course.  Ver-ry  good.  I  have  been  one  time  in 
your  country.  I  have  studied  the  langooage 
there,  yes.  Ver-ry  fine,  ver-ry  fine.  All  Ameri- 
can people  ver-ry  fine.  All  heroes.  Yes,  yes, 
I  think  so.  I  have  read  it  also  in  your  books. 
But  par-don,  sir,  what  is  it  you  do  now?" 

And  I  said  I  wasn't  doing  anything  except  ma- 
kin'  up  my  mind  whether  I'd  go  back  to  the  navy 
or  not,  and  if  I  did,  how  I'd  get  back. 

"Ah-h,  man-o'-war-man.  I  have  thought  so. 
You  sail  ship — navigate,  yes?"  And  I  said  I 
didn't  know  about  navigatin',  but  I  could  sail  a 
ship  if  I  had  to. 

"I  have  thought  so,"  he  says.  "Listen,  please. 
While  you — compose,  is  it  not? — your  brains, 
should  you  not  wish  to  engage  in  privateerin' ? 
It  is  ver-ry  good  wonderful  opportune  time  now 
for  that,  while  the  Blues  are  in  control  and  the 
Reds  who  are  on  the  ocean  know  not  of  it." 

"H'm,  we  kind  o'  lost  the  privateerin'  habit  in 
our  country.  How  do  you  do  it  these  days?"  I 
says. 

"Oh-h,  sir,  ver-ry  sim-ple,  ver-ry.  My  friend 
he  is  in  the  Blue  cabinet.  A  fine  man,  yes.  He 
shall  make  for  me  all  the  privateerin'  documents 
I  shall  require.  It  is  necessary  only  to  request 
respectfully  of  him.  Then  we  shall  engage  a 
small  ship  and  you  shall  navigate  her,  and  when 

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we  shall  perceive  other  ships,  the  same  who  shall 
display  the  Red  flag,  we  shall  display  suddenly  a 
Blue  flag  on  our  ship  and  capture  them." 

" And  loot  'em?" 

"Par-don,  sir,"  says  he,  "but  what  is  that 
lootem?" 

"Why,  whatever's  in  the  ships  we  capture. 
Don't  we  get  every  thin'  we  c'n  find  in  'em?" 

"Oh,  sir,  of  a  surely,  abso-lutely.  It  is  the  ar- 
ticle of  war.  But" — he  holds  up  a  finger  warnin'- 
like — "as  commander  of  the  expedition  I  shall  re- 
serve to  myself  one  article  of  any  kind  which 
shall  be  captured.  One  chest,  one  table,  even" 
— he  looked  at  me  to  see  if  I  got  this  part — 
"even  one  prisoner,  if  I  shall  so  desire." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  too,"  I  said;  "for  I 
s'pose  you're  payin'  for  the  outfittin'  o'  this  expe- 
dition?" And  he  says  he  was.  "Then  it's  a 
go,"  I  says;  "for  I  don't  see  but  I  might  's  well 
be  privateerin'  an'  pickin'  up  a  little  loose  loot 
as  lyin'  around  on  the  beach  wonderin'  where  my 
eats  are  comin'  from  f 'r  the  next  few  weeks." 

So  he  brings  me  around  and  shows  me  a  little 
brigantine,  he'd  chartered,  and  with  three  dusky 
lads  for  a  crew  and  some  grub  and  two  big  chests 
on  her  quarter-deck  we  sail  out.  And  the  first 
thing  I  says  when  we  were  clear  o'  the  harbor 
was:  "What's  them  chests  for?"  And  he  opens 

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up  one  of  'em  and  says:  "Behold,  senor,  your 
uniform!" 

And  I  looks  and  there's  five  gold  stripes  on  the 
sleeve  of  the  coat  to  begin  with.  And  draws  it 
all  out,  pants  and  all,  and  I  see  it's  an  admiral's 
special  full-dress  uniform! 

"For  me?"   I  says. 

"Certain-ly,"  he  says.  "You,  senor,  shall  be 
an  admiral.  Why  not?" 

"Well,"  I  says,  "I  don'  know  why  not  either, 
only  it's  some  rank  to  start  with.  But  what'll 
you  be?"  And  at  that  he  opens  up  the  other 
chest  and  hauls  out  another  uniform  and  holds 
it  up  f'r  me  to  look  at,  and,  pointin'  to  the  insig- 
nia, he  asks:  "What  rank  shall  such  be?" 

It  was  a  general's  uniform,  and  I  tells  him  so. 

"So?"  he  says.  Then  bowing  to  me:  "Then  I, 
senor,  if  you  do  not  object,  shall  be  a  gen'ral." 

"Sure — why  not,  senor?"  I  says.  "And  there's 
cert'nly  some  class  to  the  quarter-deck  o'  this 
brigantine.  Let's  get  into  'em."  And  we  got  into 
'em,  an'  gorgeous,  oh,  gorgeous,  they  were.  An' 
rememberin'  the  market  price  o'  hams  when  I 
was  buyin'  hams,  I  figured  they  must  'a'  cost 
ten  or  fifteen  million  dollars  apiece.  And  I  hadn't 
been  an  hour  in  mine — solid  gold  almost,  and  a 
gold-mounted  shappo  and  a  gold  belt  and  a  daz- 
zlin'  sword — before  I  begins  to  appreciate  what 

241 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

it  was  to  be  an  admiral  and  to  respect  every  ad- 
miral ever  I'd  sailed  under — except  maybe  two  or 
three — for  bein'  good  enough  to  look  at  me  at 
all  while  they  were  standing  round  deck  in  their 
uniforms.  An'  f'r  the  next  hour  I  kept  that 
crew  hoppin'  from  one  end  of  the  brigantine  to 
the  other,  just  to  see  'em  hop  when  I  gives  an 
order  with  my  admiral's  uniform  on. 

But  after  I  got  so  I  could  take  off  my  shappo 
and  draw  my  sword  and  look  down  at  myself 
without  swellin'  up,  I  says  to  the  gert'ral,  "What 
d'y'say,  senor  gen'ral,  to  a  little  action?"  and 
points  to  a  lad  quarterin'  down  the  wind  toward 
us  with  a  Red  flag  up.  "It's  plain,"  I  says,  "he 
don't  know  the  Blues  is  in.  What  d'y'say  if  we 
shake  him  up  same  as  a  real  privateer — send  a  hot 
shot  across  his  forefoot  and  make  him  haul  his 
wind?" 

"No,  no,"  and  the  gen'ral  shakes  his  head. 

And  soon  there  came  another  fellow  inbound 
and  with  a  Red  flag  up,  but  again  the  gen'ral  said, 
"Paysheeons,  paysheeons,  senor  admiral,"  and 
raises  one  hand  to  restrain  my  impulsive  motions. 

And  four  or  five  more  passed,  all  flyin'  the  Red 
flag.  But  no  word  from  the  gen'ral  until  toward 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon — and  a  hot  afternoon 
it  was.  The  gen'ral,  with  the  glasses  to  his  eyes, 
bounces  into  the  air.  "Ah-h!"  and  again," Ah-h!" 

242 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

and  points  to  her.  "Now  the  fair  prize-a,  the 
rich  prize-a!"  he  says,  and  draws  deep  breaths, 
and  cinches  up  on  his  belt,  and  runs  his  fingers 
between  his  red  and  green  and  yellow  gold- 
mounted  collar  and  his  neck,  and  runs  below  and 
takes  a  last  look  at  himself  in  the  mirror,  and 
comes  runnin'  up  on  deck  and  calls  out:  "Senor 
admiral,  you  shall  prepare  the  ship  for  combat!" 

"Ay,  ay,  gen'ral!"  I  says  and  takes  out  my 
bosun's  whistle,  which  I'd  never  turned  in  of  a 
night  without  hangin'  it  'round  my  neck,  and 
which  I  now  lifts  from  the  breast  of  my  gold- 
mounted  coat,  and  pipes  all  hands  to  battle 
quarters.  But  the  crew,  except  the  one  to  the 
wheel,  was  under  the  rail,  asleep,  and  so  I  had  to 
enforce  my  pipin'  with  the  flat  of  my  sword.  It'd 
been  quicker  to  kick  'em,  but,  it  bein'  a  hot  day, 
I'd  left  off  my  shoes.  And  when  they  come  awake 
I  orders  'em  to  fly  the  battle-flag,  which  the  gen- 
'ral  brings  up  from  the  bottom  of  his  uniform 
chest,  a  fine  large  bright-blue  thing,  with  stars  and 
horned  moons  on  it. 

And  then  I  makes  ready  a  little  old  muzzle- 
loadin'  gun,  which  was  lashed  in  the  waist,  but 
pointin'  over  the  port  side,  which  happened  to 
be  the  wrong  side  when  we  wanted  to  fire  a  shot 
across  the  enemy's  bow.  So  we  had  to  tack  ship, 
which  took  about  ten  minutes,  my  crew  not  bein' 

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Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

A.  B.'s.  But  when  we  did  fire,  the  noise  and  the 
splash  of  water  the  ball  threw  up  was  war  enough 
for  the  enemy.  She  was  about  a  loo-ton  tradin' 
schooner,  and  she  came  into  the  wind. 

"Haul  down  your  flag!"  hollers  the  gen'ral  in 
the  Tangarine  language,  and  one  of  their  crew 
was  goin'  to  haul  it  down,  only  for  a  stout  little 
chap  who  came  runnin'  up  out  of  her  cabin  and 
put  his  glasses  on  the  gen'ral,  and  then  rushes 
over  and  grabs  the  signal  halyards  from  the  man 
who  was  goin'  to  lower  'em,  and  hits  him  a  clip 
in  the  neck  at  the  same  time — a  scrappy  chap  he 
looked. 

"He  is  there — it  is  heemself,"  says  the  gen'ral, 
excitedly.  But  to  me,  very  courteous,  he  said: 
"Sefior  admiral,  shall  you  manoeuvre  the  ship  to 
approach  the  enemy,  if  you  please?" 

"Ay,  ay,  sir!"  I  says  cheerily,  and  puts  the 
brigantine  alongside,  and  the  pair  of  us,  in  our 
gorgeous  uniforms,  we  leaps  aboard. 

"Surrender!"  orders  the  gen'ral  in  a  com- 
mandin'  voice,  but  the  scrappy  little  man  he 
wouldn't.  He  yelled  somethin'  at  his  crew,  and 
they  got  behind  him.  And  there  were  four  of 
them  against  me  an'  the  gen'ral,  for  our  brigan- 
tine started  to  drift  away  soon  as  we  left  her, 
and  our  spiggity  crew  couldn't  get  her  alongside 
again. 

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Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

There  we  were,  us  two  heroes,  marooned  on  the 
enemy's  deck,  in  the  most  magnificent  uniforms, 
but  not  another  blessed  thing  to  fight  with  except 
a  couple  o'  gold-plated  swords.  But  the  little  cap- 
tain and  his  crew  had  only  what  loose  things  they 
could  grab  in  a  hurry — oars,  deck-swabs,  marlin- 
spikes,  and  one  thing  or  another;  but  with  them, 
without  wastin'  any  flourishes,  they  came  at  me 
an*  the  gen'ral,  and  we  draws  our  swords. 

"What  d'  y'  say,  will  we  have  at  'em,  gen'ral?" 
I  says. 

"As  you  say,  senor  admiral,  have  at  'em!" 
answers  the  gen'ral,  and  we  haves  at  'em. 

But  I  soon  begin  to  see  we  wasn't  havin'  at 
'em  in  any  great  shape.  Our  swords  had  two 
backs  but  no  edge.  It  was  like  hittin'  'em  with 
barrel-staves.  Fine  grand  echoes,  but  the  echoes 
wasn't  knockin'  'em  down.  And  the  gold-mounted 
uniforms  were  in  the  way,  too — in  my  way,  any- 
way. My  gold-mounted  collar  was  gettin'  so  tight 
after  I'd  warmed  up  to  the  work  that  I  'most 
choked. 

"Have  at  'em!"  the  gen'ral  cried  again,  "but 
have  great  care  for  the  old  gentleman." 

I  was  just  goin'  to  welt  the  little  captain  a  good 
one  when  I  heard  that.  "Not  hurt  him!"  I  says. 
"A  hell  of  a  battle  this  where  we  have  to  play 
fav'rites  among  th'  enemy.  And  why  won't  I 

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Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

hurt  him,  senor  gen'ral,  an*  him  the  best  scrapper 
o'  the  lot?" 

"You  must  not.  No,  no!  He  is  the  father  of 
the  lady." 

"So  that's  it?  And  where's  the  fair  lady?" 
I  asks. 

"I  know  not.  I  trust  she  is  on  this  ship,  but 
I  know  not.  But  have  at  'em,  as  you  say,  senor 
admiral,  once  more,  and  possibly  we  shall  dis- 
cover." 

"All  right,  but  let's  have  at  'em  right,"  I  says, 
and  down  on  the  deck  I  throws  my  grand  sword, 
and  with  it  the  very  fine  scabbard  which  I'd  been 
holdin'  with  one  hand  to  keep  from  givin'  myself 
the  leg.  And  I  sheds  the  gold-embroidered  coat 
on  top  of  it.  I  kept  wearin'  the  gold-mounted 
shappo  because  the  sun  was  hot,  but  the  rest  of 
me  was  stripped  to  the  waist.  And  I  felt  better, 
and  then  I  says:  "Come  on,  gen'ral,  unhook 
that  golden  armor  and  be  free  an'  easy  in  y'ur 
motions  like  me." 

"No,  no,  senor  admiral.  I  shall  wear  my  uni- 
form, even  though  it  is  to  die  in  it,"  he  answers 
back. 

"All  right,  senor  gen'ral,"  I  says,  "have  your 
own  way.  It's  the  privilege  of  your  rank,  but 
for  me  a  little  looser  motions  and  a  heavier  arma- 
ment," and  I  picks  up  what  looks  like  a  base- 

246 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

ball  bat,  but  a  little  longer  and  a  little  thicker 
and  a  good  deal  heavier  than  any  baseball  bat. 
A  capstan-bar  it  was.  And  if  y'ever  handled  one 
you  know  what  a  great  little  persuader  a  capstan- 
bar  is.  I  could  tell  you  a  hundred  stories  o'  cap- 
stan-bars. Many  a  good  fight  used  to  be  settled 
in  th'  old  sailin'-ship  days  with  a  capstan-bar. 

And  with  my  capstan-bar  I  haves  at  'em  right. 
Soon  I  had  two  of  the  enemy  backed  up  to  the 
forehatch,  and  before  their  worryin'  eyes  I  flour- 
ishes my  capstan-bar.  "Now  then,"  I  says,  "it's 
go  below  for  you  two  or  a  pair  of  cracked  skulls 
— which?"  And  they  went  below,  the  pair  of 
them  together  like  divin'  seals,  into  what  I  see, 
when  I  takes  a  peek,  was  mostly  a  cargo  of  pine- 
apples and  cocoanuts  in  bulk.  I  could  hear  'em 
bouncin'  around  among  'em  after  they  struck. 

And  now,  being  well  warmed  up  to  my  work 
and  my  head  bustin'  with  strategy,  I  takes  the 
little  captain  in  the  rear  and  was  about  to  lay 
him  low,  when  the  gen'ral  hollers:  "Senor  admiral, 
you  for-get — spare  him!"  So  I  spares  him,  but 
I  whales  the  other  last  one  a  couple  in  a  soft 
spot  and  chases  him,  till  he  took  a  high  dive  too 
into  the  forehold;  and  I  could  also  hear  him 
rattlin'  and  bouncin'  around  after  he  struck  the 
cocoanuts  or  the  pineapples,  whichever  it  was. 
Then  I  goes  for  the  little  captain  again,  only 

247 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

now  I  picks  him  up  and  holds  him  while  the  gen- 
'ral  ties  his  arms,  and  then,  first  clampin'  down 
the  forehatches  on  the  captured  crew,  we  lowers 
him  into  the  cabin  whilst  we  take  a  look  around. 

It  was  me  for  loot,  the  gen'ral  for  the  fair  lady. 
But  not  a  thing  could  I  find,  and  him  no  fair 
lady.  In  the  hold,  topside,  between  decks,  every- 
where; but  nothin'  besides  cocoanuts  and  other 
fruit  and  some  hogsheads  o'  rum.  The  rum  was 
an  encouragin'  item,  but  not  what  you'd  call  loot. 
So  we  came  back  to  the  cabin  and  untied  the 
captain,  who  begins  at  once  to  go  rollin'  ciga- 
rettes and  shootin'  green  eyes  at  the  pair  of  us. 
The  gen'ral  takes  a  seat  opposite  him  and  argues 
beseechin'ly,  but  not  one  soft  look  from  the  little 
man. 

The  gen'ral,  discouraged,  turns  to  me.  "Sefior 
admiral,  what  do  you  say  for  him?  Is  it  not  a 
hard  heart?  I  love  his  daughter,  but  he " 

"She  no  lofe  you!"  snaps  the  little  man. 

"Ah-h,  but  how  can  you  say  that  truly?"  says 
the  gen'ral,  and  turns  to  me  and  says:  "Is  it  not 
just,  senor  admiral,  that  I  should  have  one  oppor- 
tuni-ty  to  see  her?" 

By  this  time  I'd  filled  a  little  jug  with  some  rum, 
and  there  was  lemons  and  brown  sugar  and  a  little 
ice,  and  I  thought  'twas  kind  o'  rough  on  him, 
and  so  I  says:  "Yes,  I  think  y'oughter,  'specially 

248 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

while  you  got  that  uniform  on.  But  where  is 
she?" 

"Ah-h,  that  is  it,  where  is  she?  On  this  ship 
I  have  thought,  but  evident-ly  not  so." 

"Maybe  she's  here  at  that,  hidden  somewhere," 
I  says,  "and  if  she  is,  believe  me,  gen'ral,  I'll  find 
her,"  and  leavin'  a  lemon  swizzle  to  cool  I  begins 
to  search  the  schooner  again.  And  this  time  I 
takes  a  good  look  into  the  little  captain's  state- 
room. I  didn't  find  the  fair  lady,  but  packed 
cutely  away  under  the  old  fellow's  bunk  was 
about  a  cord  o'  money!  Nothing  less  than  a 
thousand-dollar  bill,  but  five  and  ten-thousand 
dollar  bills  mostly,  and  all  new.  Lord  knows  how 
much  there  was  there,  but  I  hauled  a  bushel  or 
so  of  it  out  on  the  cabin  floor  by  way  of  a  sample. 
And  the  little  man  never  stirred  when  he  saw  it; 
and  as  for  the  gen'ral,  "Bah!"  he  said— "Red 
moneys ! " 

I  was  thinkin'  I'd  done  a  fine  stroke,  and  that 
made  me  feel  kind  o'  put  out.  "I'll  find  that 
girl  if  she's  on  the  ship,"  I  says  then,  and  I  steps 
over  to  a  corner  of  the  cabin  where  there'd  been 
a  fresh  boarding-up  of  the  bulkhead. 

I  gazes  steady  at  it.  And  I  could  almost  feel 
the  little  man's  eyes  borin'  into  my  back!  And 
I  whirls  around  quick;  there  he  was — paying  no 
attention  to  the  gen'ral,  but  starin'  at  me.  And 

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Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

to  myself  I  says:  "If  losin'  all  that  money  in  his 
room  don't  jar  him,  it  must  be  somethin'  good 
behind  that  bulkhead  for  him  to  worry  over." 
And  with  that  in  my  mind  I  looks  again  at  the 
old  fellow,  and  now  I  know  what  it  is,  and  the 
old  man  knew  I  knew,  and  into  his  eyes  came 
such  a  look  that  I  stopped  dead.  You  mustn't 
forget  that  I  was  a  big,  loose,  rangy  i8o-pounder, 
and  standin'  there — I  can  see  it  now;  I  didn't 
then — but  me  standin'  there,  with  the  heat  of 
warm  exercise  and  three  West  Indian  rum  swiz- 
zles oozing  out  of  me  on  that  tropic  afternoon, 
I  c'n  see  now  I  wasn't  any  winged  angel  to  look  at. 

But  I  had  no  notion  of  that  then,  only  that  I 
was  beginnin'  to  like  the  little  captain;  and  with 
that  new  feelin'  I  spoke  to  the  gen'ral.  "Here," 
I  says,  "let's  step  on  deck  for  a  minute."  And 
we  went  up,  leaving  the  old  fellow  below  with 
his  hands  tied  while  we  were  gone.  And  up  on 
deck  I  says,  quick  and  sharp:  "Look  here,  mate, 
what's  this  about  you  and  the  old  chap's  daugh- 
ter? Is  it  all  straight?" 

"Straight?"  repeats  the  gen'ral,  puzzled  like. 
"Straight?  Ah-h — listen,  my  friend,"  and  he 
pours  out  on  me  what  I  wasn't  huntin'  for — his 
autobie-ography.  It  was  her  father  who  had  kept 
them  apart  so.  Her  father,  he  did  not  love  his 
— the  gen'ral's — father.  An  old  family  quarrel, 

250 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

yes.  Oh,  for  a  long  time  back.  Politics.  He 
was  of  the  Reds,  her  father,  and  his  own  father 
of  the  Blues.  Her  uncle  he  had  been  vice-presi- 
dent of  the  Red  republic.  It  was  true.  But 
why  should  he  and  the  beautiful  daughter  suffer 
for  a  quarrel  which  was  so  old,  and  the  girl  and 
himself  all  that  were  left  of  both  families  ?  Why  ? 
And  I  scratched  my  head  and  said  I  couldn't  see 
why  either. 

And  love  her!  Before  he  got  through  I  could 
hear  whole  poems  in  the  little  wavelets  lappin' 
under  our  run,  and  in  the  evenin'  breeze  which 
was  kissin'  my  cheek.  And  the  smell  of  oranges  and 
pineapples  and  molasses  and  good  West  India  rum 
coming  up  from  the  main  hold — 'twas  the  breath 
of  roses — only  I  stopped  to  hope  the  captured  crew 
in  the  forehold  wasn't  drinkin'  up  all  the  rum 
in  their  end  of  the  ship — and  to  this  side  and  that 
the  lights  of  passin'  ships  were  showin'  and  the 
voices  of  men  and  women  floatin'  over  the  water, 
darky  voices  mostly,  and  some  were  chorusin', 
chorusin'  a  shanty  air  which  I'd  last  heard  from 
a  crowd  of  Georgia  darkies  loadin'  a  lumber 
schooner,  a  four-masted  lumber  schooner,  through 
a  great  square  hole  in  her  bow  from  a  railroad 
dock  on  the  Savannah  River — one  time,  that  was, 
my  ship  put  into  Savannah  and  I  got  to  know  a 
girl  lived  in  the  Yamacraw  there,  and  on  Sunday 

251 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

afternoons  we  used  to  walk  up  and  sit  on  the 
lumber  piles  on  that  same  railroad  wharf  and 
watch  the  yellow  river  flowing  by  and  dream  o' 
things  that  never  did  happen  an'  never  could — 
not  for  her  and  me.  And  now,  aboard  the  little 
Caribbean  trader,  the  moon  was  beginnin*  to  poke 
over  our  starboard  rail  and  the  first  little  white 
stars  were  peekin'  out  over  the  foretopsail,  and 
the  gen'ral  was  still  talking.  And  when  he'd 
done  he  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  said: 
"Straight,  my  brave  American  friend?  As  straight 
as  a  tall  palm-tree.  And  all  this" — he  pulls  on 
the  end  of  a  couple  of  cords  on  his  gold-mounted 
coat — "I  thought  it  would  look  well  in  her  eyes." 
And  he  stops. 

"But  you  are  of  the  North,"  he  says  after  a 
little  while;  "you  think  that  foolish,  possibly?" 

"We  do,"  I  says.  "We  unanimously  do,"  and 
as  I  said  it  I  got  to  thinkin'  of  how  when  I  was 
a  boy  I  used  to  walk  on  my  hands,  and  stand  on 
my  head,  and  throw  flip-flaps,  or  stop  to  knock 
the  head  off  some  passin'  kid — if  I  was  able — 
anythin'  so  a  red-ginghamed,  pop-eyed  little  girl 
sittin'  on  the  door-step  across  the  street  would 
take  notice.  "We  do  those  things  when  we  are 
boys,"  says  I  aloud. 

"Ah-h!  So  you  think — "  says  the  gen'ral. 
"Ver-ry  good,"  and  starts  to  throw  off  his  uni- 
form. 

.252 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

"No,  no,"  I  says.  "Keep  that  on.  It  becomes 
you.  And,  besides,  I  don't  know's  I'm  so  sure  we 
ought  all  to  grow  up.  And  come  below — come!" 
I  thought  I  heard  the  old  fellow's  voice  below  and 
I  jumped  down,  and  there  he  was,  the  little  cap- 
tain, hurryin'  away  from  the  bulkhead. 

And  now  I  examines  the  bulkhead  carefully, 
and  I  goes  up  on  deck  and  resumes  my  full  ad- 
miral's coat  and  buckles  on  the  fine  gold-mounted 
belt  and  sword  and  sets  my  shappo  just  a  little 
to  one  side.  I  was  wishin'  I  had  my  shoes,  but 
they  were  on  the  brigantine  and  she  was  a  quar- 
ter-mile away  and  still  driftin'.  And  back  in  the 
cabin  again,  I  picks  up  the  hammer  and  draws 
from  the  bulkhead  plankin'  half  a  dozen  nails, 
and  in  two  minutes  it's  done,  and  out  under  the 
lights  o'  the  cabin  lamp  steps — 0,  the  prettiest, 
slimmest  little  dark-eyed  girl,  just  a  match  for 
the  gen'ral.  But  the  first  thing  she  sees  is  me, 
Killorin.  "Ah-h — "  she  says,  in  a  long  sigh  with 
her  mouth  a  little  open,  and  I  tosses  the  hammer 
and  nails  into  a  corner  and  straightens  up  and 
takes  a  full  breath;  and  let  me  tell  you,  son,  in 
those  days  the  worst-lookin'  flatfoot  ever  climbed 
over  a  gunboat's  side  wasn't  me,  Killorin,  bosun's 
mate,  second-class — or  was  I  first-class  then  ?  No 
matter;  I  was  in  a  full-dress  admiral's  uniform 
then,  and  from  me  cocked  hat  to  me  bare  toes  I 
was  some  class.  I  knew  I  was — even  without 

253 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

my  shoes.  And  when  again  she  looks  at  me  and 
when  again  she  sighs,  "Ah-h — "  with  her  little 
red  lips  apart,  I  says  to  myself:  "Killorin,  son, 
you're  makin'  one  big  hit."  And  just  then  her 
eyes  looked  past  me  and  again  she  said,  "Ah-h— 
and  down  among  my  lower  ribs  somewhere 
dropped  my  quick-firm'  heart,  and  "Killorin,"  I 
whispers  to  myself,  "she  loves  you — not."  For 
that  last  ah-h —  and  sigh-h  for  the  general  was 
seven  times  deeper  and  longer  than  the  one  she 
hove  up  at  sight  of  me. 

And  while  they  were  gazin'  rapturous  at  each 
other  the  little  captain's  eyes  met  mine.  And 
with  a  memory  o*  the  last  time  I'd  been  up  be- 
fore a  summary  court-martial,  I  takes  charge  of 
the  case.  And  "Sir,"  I  says,  "it  appears  to  me 
like  I'd  have  to  be  judge  here.  You,  sir,  are  a 
prisoner  o'  war.  And,  to  be  more  explicit,  all 
aboard  here  are  prisoners  o'  war.  But  no  gen- 
tleman, and  I  say  gentleman  advisedly,  is  goin' 
to  include  a  woman  in  the  loot  without  her  own 
consent,  even  if  her  father  did  hide  her  away  and 
deny  the  same,  which  is  against  all  articles  o'  war, 
besides  bein'  most  disrespectful  of  service  regula- 
tions. But  in  consideration  of  your  previous 
good  conduct  we  will  not  mention  that  now." 

I  turns  to  the  gen'ral.  "You,  senor  gen'ral, 
do  you  believe  me  an  honest  man?"  And  with- 

254 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

out  even  lookin'  at  me  he  says,  "PfF — a  foolish 
queschee-own,  seiior  admiral.  I  have  known  you 
are  honest  from  the  mo-ment  I  have  seen  you 
spendin'  your  money  foolishly  at  the  hotel.  And 
brave — as  all  American  sailormen  are  brave." 

"Tis  well,"  I  says.  "And  you"— I  turned  to 
the  little  captain — "you,  I  fear  me,  sir,  will  have 
to  take  my  honesty  for  granted.  Now  I'll  be  the 
judge.  Do  you" — I  faces  the  gen'ral  again — 
"agree?  'Cause  if  you  don't  you  an'  me'll  have 
to  hop  up  on  deck  and  fight  it  out." 

The  gen'ral  was  still  lookin'  up  at  the  little 
captain's  daughter.  "Silence  gives  consent,"  I 
says.  "And  now,"  I  says,  "it's  the  young  lady 
will  say  the  word.  Attend  me,  senorita.  This 
young  man  here,  but  two  moments  agone,  up  on 
deck  declared  to  me,  while  below  the  blue  Carib- 
bean the  sun  like  a  fine  ripe  orange  was  sinkin', 
and  likewise  the  Southern  Cross  was  shinin',  lop- 
sided, like  a  blessin'  in  the  southwest  over  toward 
where  the  hills  o'  South  America  would  'a'  been 
if  we  could  'a'  seen  'em — to  me,  on  this  occasion, 
this  young  man  declared  he  loved  you.  This 
young  man — attend  me,  and  not  him,  fair  lady, 
please — and  a  gallant  young  man  he  is — I  never 
knew  a  gallanter  on  such  short  notice — this 
young  man  on  the  occasion  aforementioned  de- 
clared to  me  that  he  loves  you  and  wants  you  to 

255 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

wife.     What  have  you  to  say  to  this  charge?     Do 
you  love  him  or  do  you  not?    Take  your  time 


in  answerinV 


And  I  stood  to  one  side.  She  was  still  lookin' 
at  the  gen'ral  and  him  at  her.  Just  once  she 
looked  at  her  father  and  once  at  me — and  I 
winked  by  way  of  encouragement — and  she  looked 
at  her  gen'ral  again,  and  looked  and  looked,  till 
all  at  once  the  gen'ral  just  nachally  stepped  across 
the  cabin  floor  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Look  here,  boy,"  I  says,  stern-like,  "ain't  that 
kind  o'  rushin'  things?  Have  you  a  steady  job 
— outside  o'  privateerin'  ? " 

"I  do  not  work.  I  have  money,"  he  says  over 
her  shoulder. 

"Real  money?  Or  this  kind?"  and  I  points  to 
the  bales  of  new  bills  in  the  little  captain's  room. 

"I  have  gold  in  the  bank  and  much  sugar 
plantations." 

"Then,  orer  pro  nobis,  she  is  yours,"  I  says,  and 
waves  my  arms  beneficent-like  over  the  pair  of 
them.  "And  you  and  me,"  I  says  to  the  old 
man,  "as  I  don't  see  how  we  c'n  help  it,  what 
d'ye  say  if  we  two  call  the  war  off  and  have  a 
few  lemon  swizzles  with  ice  in  'em?" 

And  I  draws  a  jug  o'  Santiago  rum,  and  there 
was  lemons  an'  sugar  and  a  little  ice,  and  we  fore- 
gathers like  a  couple  of  old  shipmates  after  a  for- 


Killorinfs  Caribbean  Days 

eign  cruise.  And  when,  in  the  mornin',  from  out 
of  the  smooth  Caribbean  Sea  the  rosy  sun  came 
swimmin'  we  was  right  there,  joyous  as  a  liberty 
party  on  pay-day,  to  greet  it.  And  the  gen'ral 
and  the  senorita  also  saluted  the  goddess  o'  the 
mornin',  and  after  breakfast  we  all  went  ashore, 
and  that  night  I  danced  a  taranteller  at  the  wed- 
din'.  And,  believe  me,  there's  class  to  a  good 
taranteller  dancer. 

And  likewise  that  night,  with  the  silver  moon 
risin'  like  a  goddess  o'  wisdom  above  the  smooth 
Caribbean,  and  me  and  the  little  captain  mixin' 
lemon  swizzles  on  the  veranda  of  the  gen'ral's 
plantation  hacienda,  the  little  captain  says  to 
me:  "I  love  you  as  one  son.  You  shall  be  cap- 
tain of  my  ship."  And  as  a  sort  of  weddin'  legacy 
he  bequeathes  to  me  all  the  money  was  in  the 
schooner  when  the  gen'ral  and  me  captured  her. 

And  next  mornin'  I  took  up  my  quarters  on 
the  schooner,  with  the  crews  of  the  schooner  and 
the  brigantine  for  body-servants.  And  I  had 
one  good  time.  There  was  a  basket  there — a 
basket  about  the  size  of  a  good-sized  wash-basket 
— and  every  mornin'  I'd  shovel  a  lot  of  money 
into  that.  Oh,  I  don'  know  how  much,  maybe 
two  or  three  or  four  or  five  or  six  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  I'd  say  to  the  cook,  or  maybe 
one  of  the  deck  force:  "Here  you,  Fernando,  go 

257 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

on  up  now  an'  hurry  back."  And  they  weren't 
bad  traders  at  all.  In  a  couple  of  hours  they'd 
come  hustling  back  with  the  full  o'  the  basket  o' 
chickens,  eggs,  butter,  cheese,  bologny,  and  fruit 
— everything  a  man  'd  want  for  breakfast — in 
place  o'  the  money.  Fifty  thousand  dollars  a 
day  apiece  I  paid  the  crew,  and  good  and  plenty 
for  them — a  lot  o'  lazy  loafers.  It  used  to  take 
three  of  'em  to  buckle  me  into  my  uniform  of  a 
hot  morning. 

I  never  knew  how  much  money  was  in  that 
pile,  but  three  or  four,  or  maybe  five  or  six  hun- 
dred million  dollars.  And  maybe  I  didn't  live 
on  the  fat  o'  the  land  with  it,  for  eight  weeks!  It 
would  'a'  lasted  longer  only  it  was  the  divil 
tryin'  to  be  thrifty  with  my  admiral's  uniform 
on,  and  then  one  mornin'  the  Hiawatha  came  to 
port,  and  with  what  I  had  left — forty  or  fifty 
million,  or  whatever  it  was — I  gave  a  farewell 
party  that  night  at  the  hotel  where  the  banana 
grove  was  in  the  yard.  I  wore  my  admiral's 
uniform  for  the  last  time  that  night,  and  maybe 
that  made  'em  charge  me  a  little  more,  but  no 
matter  that.  In  the  mornin'  I  didn't  have  hardly 
enough  to  tip  the  waiters,  three  or  four  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  maybe,  but — whatever  it  was,  I 
tips  'em  with  it,  and  goes  down  to  the  beach  to 
where  the  little,  old,  homely  Hiawatha  was  lay- 

258 


Killorin's  Caribbean  Days 

ing  to  anchor,  and  'twas  eight  o'clock  and  the 
bugler  was  sounding  colors  and  it  made  me  feel 
homesick,  and  I  waves  my  hand  back  to  the 
town,  and  "Fare  thee  well,  O  Tangarine-a,"  I 
says,  "Tangarine-a,  fare  thee  well."  Secretary 
o'  the  navy  I  could  'a*  been,  I  know,  but  back 
aboard  the  old  Hiawatha  I  goes.  And  damn 
glad,  you  betcher,  I  was  to  be  there. 

But  an  admiral  of  the  Blue  I  was  once,  with 
a  hogshead  of  nothin'  less  than  thousand-dollar 
bills;  and  I  helped  to  make  two  young  people 
happy.  And  no  one  c'n  take  that  from  me.  And 
so  I  say  when  people  say  there's  no  good  in  revo- 
lutions you  refer  'em  to  me,  Killorin,  bosun's  mate, 
U.  S.  N .— I'll  tell  'em. 


259 


THE  BATTLE-CRUISE  OF  THE 
"SVEND  FOYN" 


The  Battle-Cruise  of  the 
"Svend  Foyn" 

AT  this  time  I  had  drifted  down  South 
America  way,  and  was  master  of  a  combina- 
tion whaling  and  sealing  steamer  sailing  out  of 
Punta  'renas  for  the  firm  of  Amundsen  &  Co. 

Punta  Arenas,  if  you  don't  happen  to  know,  is 
at  the  tip  end  of  Patagonia,  in  the  Magellan 
Straits.  It  is  now  a  highly  respectable  place  under 
the  Chilean  flag,  but  there  was  a  time  it  wasn't. 
All  kinds  of  human  wreckage  used  to  drift  onto 
the  west  coast  of  South  America  in  those  days, 
and  when  the  Chilean  Government  couldn't  take 
care  of  them  any  other  way  they  would  ship  them 
down  through  the  straits  to  Punta  'renas.  At 
the  time  I  was  there  most  of  the  bad  ones  had 
been  run  out,  but  every  now  and  then  a  few  of 
the  old  crew  would  pop  up  and  worry  people  into 
thinking  Punta  'renas  must  still  be  a  hard  place, 
which  it  wasn't. 

Mr.  Amundsen  lived  in  a  big  house  up  on  the 
plaza  where  the  bandstand  was,  with  a  fine  open- 

263 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

air  veranda  in  front  and  a  glassed-in  conservatory 
on  the  side,  and  aft  of  the  house  a  garden  with  a 
waterfall  modelled  after  something  he  had  left 
behind  him  in  Norway.  He  designed  the  water- 
fall himself,  and  over  the  grandpiano  in  the  front 
room  looking  out  on  the  plaza  was  an  oil-painting 
of  it — a  whale  of  a  painting,  done  by  a  stranded 
Scandinavian  who  told  Mr.  Amundsen  he'd  seen 
that  identical  waterfall  in  Norway  many  a  time, 
which  perhaps  he  had. 

We  didn't  like  Mr.  Amundsen  any  the  less  be- 
cause of  his  collection  of  old  sagas  which  he  used 
to  spin  out  for  hours  on  end.  Whoppers,  some 
of  them  were,  but  we,  his  whaling  and  sealing 
captains,  we'd  sit  there  and  never  let  on,  eating 
thin  Norwegian  bread  and  goats'  cheese  and  dried 
chips  of  ptarmigan,  with  Trondhjem  beer,  and 
none  of  us  but  would  have  sat  longer  any  time, 
so  that  after  he  got  through  there  was  a  chance 
to  hear  his  daughter  Hilda  play  the  grandpiano 
— and  sing,  maybe,  while  she  played.  And  I  tell 
you,  the  thought  of  that  fine  old  Norwegian  and 
Hilda  after  months  of  banging  around  to  the  west- 
'ard  of  Cape  Horn  in  a  little  whaling  steamer — it 
was  surely  like  coming  home  to  be  home-bound 
then. 

Norwegian  songs  were  they,  and  I,  American- 
born,  and  only  half  Scandinavian  by  blood,  was 

264 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

probably  the  one  man  coming  to  Amundsen's  who 
didn't  know  every  word  of  them  by  heart.  But 
not  much  of  the  sentiment  of  them  I  missed  at 
that,  because  in  other  days  I'd  cruised  off  Nor- 
way, too,  and  knew  the  places  the  songs  told 
about — the  high-running  fjords  and  the  little 
white  lighthouses;  the  fish  drying  on  the  rocks 
and  the  night  sun  floating  just  above  the  edge  of 
the  gray  sea;  and,  again,  the  long  black  night  of 
winter  and  the  dead  piled  up  to  wait  till  they 
could  be  buried  when  the  snow  went  in  the  spring. 

But  shore  time  in  Punta  'renas  was  holiday 
time.  Wet  days,  hard  days  at  sea  have  their 
time,  too;  and  Mr.  Amundsen  and  Hilda  and 
Punta  'renas  were  a  long  way  behind  me.  I  was 
whaling  and  sealing  in  the  South  Pacific,  and  had 
been  doing  pretty  well,  but  nothing  record-break- 
ing till  one  day  I  picked  up  a  lot  of  ambergris. 

Now  I  could  have  stocked  a  million  dollars  in  a 
regular  way  and  nobody  pay  any  great  attention; 
but  the  tale  of  that  find  went  through  half  the 
South  Pacific.  A  dozen  whaling  and  sealing  mas- 
ters boarded  me  in  one  month  to  see  if  it  was  so, 
and  after  I'd  told  them  the  story  of  it  about 
forty-five  times,  I  began  to  see  myself  telling  it 
to  old  Amundsen  and  Hilda  in  the  big  front  room 
looking  out  on  the  plaza,  her  father  and  I  having 
a  late  supper  of  flat  bread  and  the  goats'  cheese 

265 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

and  the  dried  ptarmigan  chips,  with  Trondhjem 
beer,  and  Hilda  playing  softly  on  the  piano  with 
an  eye  and  an  ear  maybe  sidewise  now  and  again 
to  me. 

And  now  we  were  truly  homeward  bound  in  old 
Magellan  Straits,  with  the  hills  back  of  Punta 
'renas  in  sight  from  our  masthead,  when  we  spied 
a  Norwegian  bark  with  a  deckload  of  lumber 
ashore  on  the  spit  of  Pouvenir  Bay,  which  is  on 
the  southerly — the  Terra  del  Fuego — shore  of  the 
straits.  Her  ensign  was  upside  down  in  her  rig- 
ging, and  I  headed  in  to  see  if  we  could  help  her 
out.  I  thought  it  was  queer  no  one  showed  up 
aboard  her  to  answer  when  I  hailed,  but  no  mat- 
ter— I  moored  my  steamer  just  inside  the  spit 
and  put  off  with  half  a  dozen  men  in  a  boat  and 
went  aboard. 

Nobody  on  her  deck,  nobody  in  her  below  for- 
'ard.  I  went  aft  and  dropped  into  her  cabin,  my 
men  behind  me,  and  we  were  peeking  here  and 
there  to  see  what  it  was  could  be  wrong,  when 
slap!  on  goes  the  cabin  hatch  over  our  heads. 
Then  we  hear  the  padlock  slipped  on  and  the 
lock  sprung.  We  are  prisoners,  without  even  a 
peek  at  who  it  was  did  it. 

We  heard  them  going  off.  Without  waiting 
any  longer,  I  began  slashing  away  with  my  pocket- 
knife,  the  only  knife  among  us,  and  by  and  by  I 

266 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

had  cut  our  way  through  the  cabin  door;  but  that 
took  a  lot  of  time.  From  the  bark's  deck,  when 
we  were  clear,  there  was  nothing  in  sight  except 
our  own  steamer  to  anchor  in  the  bay  beyond  the 
spit.  The  boat  we  had  come  in  was  gone. 

Well,  we  weren't  worrying  about  the  boat,  only 
we  had  to  take  the  time  to  lash  together  twenty 
or  thirty  pine  planks  and  some  scantling  from 
the  bark's  deckload  of  lumber  and  raft  ourselves 
around  the  spit  and  into  the  little  bay  to  get  to 
our  steamer.  Everything  about  her  looked  all 
right,  except  that  none  of  the  crew  were  in  sight 
when  we  paddled  alongside.  I  hurried  over  the 
rail  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  It  didn't  take 
long  to  see.  The  hatches  were  off  her  hold  and 
our  sealskins  and  our  ambergris  gone  from  below. 
A  fortune  it  was,  gone — s-st! — like  that. 

Looking  further,  we  found  the  rest  of  the  crew 
nicely  locked  up  in  the  fo'c's'le.  They  didn't 
know  what  happened,  except  that  some  men  had 
come  rowing  in  from  the  direction  of  the  lumber 
bark  in  our  boat,  and  one  of  them  had  sung  out  in 
English  and  another  in  Norwegian  that  they  were 
the  crew  of  the  bark,  with  a  message  from  me. 

My  crew,  of  course,  said:  "Come  aboard."  But 
no  sooner  aboard  than  the  strangers  out  with 
revolvers,  back  my  men  into  the  fo'c's'le,  and  lock 
them  in.  That  was  all  they  knew  about  that, 

267 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

except  they  heard  the  noise  of  the  hurrying  of 
our  cargo  out  of  the  hold,  and  then  the  sound  of 
a  steamer  making  fast  alongside  and  of  shifting 
our  cargo  to  her  deck  and  of  her  moving  away. 
And  then  all  quiet  till  we  came  back. 

Well,  whoever  did  it  must  have  had  us  timed 
pretty  well.  They  must  have  had  a  gang  hid  in 
the  lumber  bark  and  a  steamer  hid  somewhere  in 
the  straits  near  by  waiting  for  us.  It  looked  as 
if  there  was  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  take  our 
loss  and  keep  on  for  Punta  'renas,  but  first  I  went 
to  the  masthead  and  had  a  look  out. 

Opposite  Pouvenir  Bay  the  Straits  of  Magellan 
are  at  their  widest.  From  the  crow's-nest  there 
was  a  good  stretch  of  sea  to  look  at.  To  the 
west'ard  was  a  touch  of  smoke,  which  might  be 
the  steamer  which  looted  us;  surely  she  didn't 
go  to  the  east'ard,  for  there  it  was  open  water 
with  nothing  in  sight.  To  the  northward,  toward 
Patagonia,  of  course,  she  would  not  go,  because 
Punta  'renas  was  there.  But  I  had  a  look  that 
way,  and  as  I  looked  I  could  see  what  looked  like 
an  open  boat  heading  our  way;  and  I  wondered 
who  she  would  be  and  what  she  would  be  after 
in  a  place  like  Terra  del  Fuego. 

They  came  skipping  on  at  a  great  clip  for  an 
open  boat.  They  were  running  her  to  a  long 
main-sheet,  but  keeping  a  tight  hand  on  the  sheet. 

268 


The  strangers  out  with  revolvers,  back  my  men  into  the  fo'c's'le, 
and  lock  them  in. 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

As  they  drew  nearer  I  see  she  was  white-painted, 
and  pretty  soon  I  see  she  was  too  big  to  be  any- 
thing but  a  navy  sailing  cutter,  and  soon  again 
I  made  out  that  they  were  a  crew  of  American 
naval  officers  and  bluejackets. 

They  went  out  of  their  way  some  to  sweep 
under  the  stern  of  the  bark,  and  I  noticed  they 
all  took  a  look  up  at  her  and  back  at  her,  won- 
dering, as  I  thought,  how  she  came  to  go  ashore. 
They  held  on  for  the  inside  of  the  bay  and  ran 
straight  up  onto  a  little  reach  of  pebbly  beach; 
and  no  sooner  grounded  than  most  of  them  went 
tearing  across  the  spit  with  rifles  and  shotguns. 
I  see  what  they  were  now — it  was  a  hunting  party. 

Without  wasting  a  second  they  began  to  blaze 
away  at  the  wild  ducks  as  they  came  swooping 
down  from  the  west.  In  that  country  the  wild 
game  don't  know  what  a  man  looks  like,  and  as 
it  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  with  the  ducks  com- 
ing back  for  the  night  from  the  west'ard,  the 
shooting  was  good.  Swooping  along  the  shore 
they  came,  across  the  mouth  of  the  bay,  flock 
after  flock  so  close-set  and  low-lying  that  they 
didn't  need  guns.  They  could  have  sat  on  the 
beach  and  hove  up  stones  or  drift-wood  and  killed 
'em  as  they  went  kiting  by,  sixty  miles  or  more 
an  hour  to  the  east'ard. 

After  twenty  minutes  or  so  they  must  have 
269 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

thought  that  kind  of  shooting  was  too  easy,  for 
part  of  them  went  off  into  the  brush  and  the 
others  came  back  to  the  spit  of  beach  and,  with 
some  kindlings  from  their  boat  and  some  drift- 
wood and  brush,  started  a  fire.  It  was  a  north 
wind,  and  I  could  smell  the  ducks  cooking  and 
the  coffee  making,  and  I  couldn't  hold  off  any 
longer.  I  rowed  myself  over  in  our  second  boat. 
The  senior  line  officer  of  the  party,  a  lieutenant, 
invited  me  to  join  them,  which  I  did,  and  pretty 
soon  I  was  eating  broiled  duck  and  drinking  real 
American  coffee,  with  bacon  and  eggs,  and  forget- 
ting my  troubles. 

After  supper  we  sat  around  and  talked,  and 
they  told  me  what  had  happened  to  the  lumber 
bark.  She  had  been  lured  inshore  by  false  lights 
the  night  before  and  boarded  by  a  gang  under 
Red  Dick,  who  had  cleaned  her  out  of  stores  and 
what  money  they  had,  and  had  driven  the  crew 
off  in  the  morning  after  beating  up  most  of  them 
by  way  of  diverting  himself.  Then  the  bark's 
captain  and  his  crew  rowed  across  the  Straits  of 
Punta  Arenas  in  their  quarter-boat,  looking  for 
satisfaction.  Nobody  there  could  do  anything 
for  them,  because  nothing  less  than  a  war-ship 
could  have  overcome  Red  Dick,  and  there  was 
no  Chilean  war-ship  nearer  than  Valparaiso,  and 
that  was  six  days'  steaming  away. 

270 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

"But  how  did  that  lumber  captain  know  it 
was  Red  Dick?"  I  asked  at  this  point. 

"He  didn't  know,"  answered  the  officer  who'd 
been  talking.  "  But  when  he  described  him  every- 
body in  Punta  Arenas  said  it  was  Red  Dick.  But 
aren't  you  an  American?" 

I  said  I  was  and  told  them  my  experience,  and 
they  all  said  what  a  pity  my  ship  wasn't  under 
the  American  flag  so  they  could  put  it  up  to  their 
captain  and  be  sure  he  would  send  a  party  after 
Red  Dick.  And  they  would  all  like  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  join  that  party,  and  an  easy  matter 
all  'round,  as  their  ship  was  to  be  hanging  around 
the  straits  for  another  week. 

By  this  time  the  others  of  the  party,  who'd 
gone  into  the  brush  for  wild  geese,  were  coming 
back.  They  didn't  get  any  geese,  because  geese, 
wild  geese,  anyway,  aren't  near  so  foolish  as  a 
lot  of  people  think.  They  were  hungry  and  sat 
right  down  to  supper. 

Among  them,  as  I  looked,  was  one  I  knew  for 
Peter  Lawson,  an  old  shipmate.  A  warrant  of- 
ficer I  saw  he  was  now,  but  when  I  knew  him 
he  was  a  chief  carpenter's  mate  on  the  old  Missa- 
lama.  We  kept  eying  each  other,  and  by  and  by 
he  remembered,  and  we  stood  up  and  shook  hands 
across  the  fire.  In  half  a  minute  we  were  talking 
of  old  days  in  the  navy. 

271 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

By  this  time  it  was  late  day,  with  the  sun 
going  down  below  the  hills  on  the  other  side  of 
Pouvenir  Bay.  I  remember  it  went  down  red  as 
the  heart  of  the  fire  we  were  sitting  by.  Through 
the  little  thin  whiffs  of  the  smoke  of  the  fire  it 
looked  like  that — all  hot  color  and  no  flame. 
Nothing  to  that,  of  course,  only  pictures  like  that 
do  start  your  brain  to  going.  The  little  bay  was 
there  at  our  feet  and  the  wide  straits  off  to  our  el- 
bow, and  the  water  of  that  bay  was  smooth  green 
where  it  shoaled  on  the  pebbly  spit;  but  the  straits, 
as  far  as  we  could  see  them,  were  one  long  roll 
of  tossing  ridges  and  scooping  hollows,  and  they 
were  all  black  except  where  the  williwaws,  cutting 
across  the  tid^,  would  whip  the  ridges  to  a  marble 
white. 

I  saw  the  sun  set  red  through  the  thin  blue 
smoke  of  the  fire,  and  almost  in  line  with  the  sun 
and  the  smoke  was  the  stranded  bark  with  her 
deck-load  of  lumber.  A  little  farther  off"  was  my 
own  little  Svend  Foyn.  It  was  coming  on  dark 
by  then  and  I  could  see  them  making  ready  the 
anchor  light  on  the  Svend  Foyn.  And  it  was 
coming  colder,  too,  for  the  broad,  warm  north 
wind  had  changed  to  a  thin  little  icy  wind  from 
the  south. 

And  now  the  fiery-red  reflection  of  the  sun  was 
gone  from  above  the  hills  across  the  bay,  and  when 

272 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "  Svend  Foyn  " 

that  went  all  warmth  went  with  it.  Everybody 
drew  nearer  to  the  fire  except  the  two  appren- 
tice boys,  who  were  cleaning  up  the  mess  gear  in 
water  made  hot  at  a  little  fire  of  their  own.  One 
of  them  was  singing  to  himself  little  jiggly,  rag- 
time songs  while  he  wiped  the  dishes: 

"Oh-h,  ahm  gwine  down  to  Macon  town 
Ter  buy  mah  'Liza  Jane  a  gown — 
Ah  feel  so  happy  'n*  ah  don*  know  why, 
Mah  bai-bie,  mah  hon-ie!" 

Every  time  he  stacked  up  a  few  plates  he  would 
stop  to  roll  a  few  more  cake-walk  steps. 

"I  wish  I  was  feeling  as  good  as  you!"  I  said 
to  myself  while  I  watched  him. 

And,  watching  him,  I  got  to  thinking  of  Hilda 
in  the  big  front  room  in  what  was  home  for  me — 
and  of  having  to  tell  her  what  a  failure  my  cruise 
had  been.  It  did  set  me  to  thinking. 

All  at  once  it  came  to  me,  and  "I've  got  it!" 
I  said,  not  knowing  I  said  it  out  loud  until  I  saw 
that  everybody  around  the  fire  was  looking  at 
me;  and  at  last  Peter  said,  "What's  it  you  got?" 

And  I  told  them  what  I  had  in  mind,  and  they 
all  thought  it  was  a  great  scheme — if  I  could 
carry  it  out.  And  the  lieutenant  in  charge  of  the 
party  said:  "And  we'll  help  you;  but  not  to- 
night— the  first  thing  in  the  morning  after  a  good 
night's  sleep." 

273 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

We  had  a  good  sleep  that  night,  sleeping  till 
sunrise  on  the  pebbly  beach  with  the  mainsail 
of  the  sailing  cutter  for  a  tent  over  us.  And  in 
the  morning  the  first  thing  after  breakfast  I  pulled 
the  lumber  bark  off  the  beach  and  moored  her  in 
the  bay.  That  was  so  she  wouldn't  break  up 
and  go  to  pieces  the  first  gale  of  wind  came  along; 
and,  as  after  that  service  I  figured  her  owners 
wouldn't  call  it  stealing,  I  helped  myself  to  a  few 
thousand  feet  of  lumber  ofF  her  deck,  and  we  all 
set  to  work  to  make  the  Svend  Foyn  over  into 
what  her  builder  back  in  Norway  certainly  never 
intended  her  for. 

First,  we  built  up  her  topsides  to  make  a  super- 
structure, and  then  added  the  other  things  a  first- 
class  battle-ship  ought  to  have.  The  Svend  Foyn 
had  two  masts  and  one  smoke-stack.  The  two 
masts  were  all  right.  We  had  only  to  set  fight- 
ing-tops around  them,  but  she  would  be  a  poor 
class  of  a  battle-ship  with  only  one  smoke-stack. 
So  we  gave  her  two  more.  We  painted  her  lower 
sides  white  and  her  topsides  yellow-brown,  and 
for  turrets  we  had  one  to  each  end  with  what  was 
intended  for  1 2-inch  gun  muzzles  sticking  out  of 
them.  And  we  allowed  the  ends  of  what  looked 
like  twelve  7-inch  black  boys  to  peek  through 
the  sides  of  what  we  called  her  gun-deck.  Two 
of  those  7-inch  muzzles  were  real  muzzles,  that  is, 

274 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

black-tarred  wood  like  the  others,  but  they  were 
hollow  so  we  could  train  a  bomb-lance  whaling- 
gun  through  them,  one  to  each  side.  When  we 
got  that  far  they  said  I  would  have  to  name  her, 
and  I  called  her  the  Cape  Horn,  and  there  being 
no  flag  that  any  of  us  had  ever  heard  of  for  Terra 
del  Fuego,  we  made  one  for  her  out  of  three 
pieces  of  green,  red,  and  purple  cloth,  and  broke 
it  out  to  her  main-peak. 

And  when  that  little  round-bowed,  fat-sterned 
whaler  waddled  out  of  Pouvenir  Bay  that  after- 
noon there  wasn't  a  thing  that  one  lieutenant, 
one  ensign,  one  doctor,  a  warrant  carpenter,  and 
sixteen  enlisted  men  of  the  United  States  Navy 
could  see  she  was  shy  of,  except  a  wireless  outfit, 
and  we  soon  fixed  that  by  stringing  a  stretch  of 
old  wire  between  her  masts,  with  half  a  dozen  old 
barrel  hoops  for  a  wireless  plant,  and  for  fear 
there  was  anybody  of  Red  Dick's  party  who  knew 
battle-ships  only  from  pictures,  I  had  the  stokers 
keep  feeding  her  fires  with  whale-oil.  After  that, 
with  the  clouds  of  smoke  belching  out  of  her,  I 
felt  sure  nobody  could  doubt  us — especially  at  a 
distance. 

We  gave  three  whistles  and  dipped  the  ensign 
to  our  navy  friends,  and  for  the  rest  of  that  day 
and  night,  and  all  next  day  and  night,  we  steamed 
through  the  straits  toward  the  Pacific.  And  on 

275 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

the  second  morning  we  turned  north  and  ran  in 
among  the  islands  off  the  Chilean  coast;  and 
pretty  soon  we  ran  into  the  place  I  was  bound 
for — a  bottle-shaped  passage  with  a  narrow  inlet 
to  each  end  and  the  shadow  of  the  Andes  Moun- 
tains darkening  all.  And,  laying  to  moorings  there, 
was  a  cargo  steamer  of  perhaps  fifteen  hundred 
tons.  Even  if  she  wasn't  too  big  a  steamer  to  be 
loafing  there,  I  knew  her  of  old.  Red  Dick  was 
handy.  I  took  a  look  around  to  the  north'ard, 
and  at  the  other  end  of  the  passage  and  jam  in 
to  the  high  rocks  was  a  whaling  steamer  about 
our  own  tonnage.  I  also  knew  her  of  old. 

I  might  as  well  say  now  that  Red  Dick  and  I 
weren't  strangers.  We  used  to  be  sort  of  friends, 
but  not  since  the  day  we  walked  up  the  long 
timber  pier  in  Punta  'renas  together  and  met 
Hilda  with  her  father.  She  was  straight  from 
school  in  Norway  then,  and  'twas  the  first  time 
we'd  seen  her.  We  looked  out  together  on  the 
wonderful  straits,  and  'twas  me  she  walked  home 
with. 

But  that  was  a  year  back,  and  it  was  other 
business  now.  I  had  now  to  make  an  impression, 
and  right  away,  to  back  up  our  battle-ship  looks. 
So  we  cut  loose  and  gave  them,  port  and  star- 
board, one  after  the  other,  twenty-one  whaling 
bombs  in  good,  regulation  style.  They  made 

276 


'Twas  me  she  walked  home  with. 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

a  terrible  racket  against  the  Andes  Mountains, 
which  come  down  here  to  the  water's  edge. 

And  Red  Dick's  gang  must  have  thought  we 
were  some  awful  power,  for  there  was  soon  great 
doings  on  the  deck  of  the  whaling  steamer.  Smoke 
began  to  come  out  of  her,  and  pretty  soon  she 
began  to  move;  but  when  we  bore  down,  with  a 
great  white  wave  ahead  of  us  and  rolls  of  smoke 
over  us,  they  quit.  Two  boats  dropped  over  her 
side  and  headed  for  a  bit  of  beach,  and  twenty 
men  scurried  off  and  lost  themselves  in  holes  be- 
tween the  rocks.  We  shot  a  few  bombs  over 
their  heads  just  to  let  them  know  we  were  a  rich 
nation  with  ammunition  to  spare.  The  echoes 
coming  back  sounded  like  a  battle-fleet  saluting 
port  in  foreign  waters. 

We  boarded  Red  Dick's  steamer,  and  there 
were  our  sealskins  and  ambergris.  There  were 
also  four  or  five  thousand  other  fine  sealskins 
which  weren't  ours,  but  which  we  took  along, 
knowing  they  weren't  Red  Dick's.  And  with 
Red  Dick's  steamer  in  charge  of  six  of  my  crew 
behind  us,  we  started  back  the  way  we  came. 
In  steaming  past  the  cargo  steamer  we  counted 
four  long  glasses  levelled  at  us. 

The  first  likely  place  we  came  to  we  hauled  to 
and  shifted  Red  Dick's  cargo  to  the  Svend  Foyn. 
By  this  time,  with  the  ambergris  back  and  five 

277 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  FoyrT 

thousand  extra  sealskins  below,  all  hands  were 
willing  to  take  a  moderate  chance  on  almost  any- 
thing. We  swung  away  for  the  straits,  but  not 
making  great  headway.  The  little  old  Svend  Foyn 
was  never  any  wonder  for  steaming.  At  her  best 
she  could  do  perhaps  ten  miles  an  hour.  Now, 
with  all  her  battle-ship  topgear  and  with  the  wind 
ahead,  she  was  doing  perhaps  six. 

It  began  to  breeze  up,  but  nothing  for  us  to 
worry  over  until  we  saw  a  steamer's  smoke  coming 
up  astern.  We  were  then  clear  of  the  coast  islands 
and  into  the  straits,  with  wind  and  sea  fighting 
each  other. 

I  had  another  good  look  at  the  steamer  coming 
up  astern,  and  took  my  prize  crew  off  Red  Dick's 
whaler  and  turned  her  adrift.  I  hated  to.  Not 
alone  the  prize  money,  but  to  see  a  good  ship  go 
to  loss  any  time  is  bad.  I  did  it  in  hopes  that 
the  cargo  steamer  coming  upon  us  would  stop  to 
get  her,  and  while  they  were  getting  her — what 
with  the  gale  and  the  dark  coming — we  would  be 
able  to  slip  away.  But  they  didn't  stop.  Per- 
haps the  little  whaler  was  too  close  in  to  the  cliffs 
for  the  big  steamer  to  have  a  chance  in  the  tide 
that  was  running.  They  let  her  pile  up  against 
the  cliffs,  and  came  on  and  ranged  up  abreast  of 
us.  Red  Dick  was  on  her  bridge.  She  came  so 
close  to  us  that  I  could  almost  have  jumped 

278 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

aboard.  It  was  blowing  pretty  hard  at  the  time, 
but  she  was  making  easy  weather  of  it — a  good 
sea-boat.  We  weren't.  The  williwaws,  which 
are  what  they  call  the  hard  squalls  off  the  high 
hills  down  there,  were  having  a  great  time  with 
out  battle-ship  topsides.  She  was  something  of  a 
roller  on  her  own  account  at  any  time,  the  Svend 
Foyn,  but  now  she  rolled  her  wooden  turrets  under 
and  every  once  in  a  while  her  bridge. 

Red  Dick  leaned  over  the  bridge  rail  and  laughed. 
He  looked  the  Svend  Foyn's  top  gear  over  and 
laughed  again.  "Blank  shells  and  wooden  guns!" 
he  called  out.  "Fine!  Any  more  left?" 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "not  all  blanks  and  not  all 
wooden,  and  a  few  left — yes." 

"So?"  he  says,  and  gives  an  order.  A  man 
pulls  a  tarpaulin  off  a  long  needle-gun  amidships. 
"Got  anything  like  that  in  your  battery?"  he 
calls  out. 

I  looked  it  over  as  if  I  was  interested.  At  the 
same  time  I  made  a  sign  to  my  mate  behind  me. 
I'd  long  before  this  loaded  my  two  whaling  bomb- 
lance  guns,  but  this  time  I  put  in  them  the  lances, 
which  were  of  steel,  weighed  eighty  pounds,  and 
were  four  and  a  half  feet  long — not  a  bad  little 
projectile  at  all. 

"What's  it  for?"  I  called  out,  pointing  to  his 
needle-gun. 

279 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

"What's  it  for?"  he  mimics.  "What  d'y' 
think  it's  for?" 

I  shake  my  head.     "I  could  never  guess." 

"Well,  you  will  soon.     You  know  me?" 

"I  do.     And  you  know  me?" 

"I  know  you,  and  I'll  take  no  chances  with  you. 
I'm  going  to  heave  you  a  line  and  take  you  in 


tow." 


"I  don't  remember  flying  any  signals  for  a  tow." 

"No?  Well,  I  think  you'd  be  better  off  for  a 
tow.  Take  my  line." 

"We  don't  want  your  line." 

"Take  my  line  or  I'll  blow  a  few  holes  in  you, 
and  while  you're  on  your  way  to  the  bottom  of 
the  straits — all  hands  of  you — I'll  ram  you  to 
make  sure." 

"You're  foolish  to  sink  us,"  I  says,  "till  you 
take  off  the  ambergris  and  the  sealskins." 

He  began  to  get  mad.  "Take  my  line  or  take 
a  shell  from  this  gun.  Which  is  it?"  he  yells. 

His  gun  was  trained  on  our  midship  topsides. 
I  couldn't  see  where  he  was  going  to  sink  us, 
leastwise  not  with  one  shot,  so,  "Come  aboard 
with  your  shell!"  I  called  out,  and  he  did.  I 
didn't  look  to  see  what  damage  the  shell  did  in 
passing,  but  it  went  clear  through  our  pine  top- 
sides  one  side  and  out  the  other. 

I'd  already  passed  the  word  to  my  mate,  and 
280 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

wh-r-oo!  went  the  four-and-a-half-foot  bomb-lance 
from  the  inside  of  one  of  our  make-believe  seven- 
inch  rifles.  The  lance  tore  through  just  above 
the  water-line  of  Red  Dick's  steamer.  The  bomb 
exploded  inside  her  hull.  Through  the  hold  the 
sea  rushed,  and  from  her  deck  below  came  whoops 
of  surprise. 

I  rolled  the  little  fat  Svend  Foyn  around.  She 
near  capsized  in  turning,  especially  as  Red  Dick 
let  me  have  two  more  from  his  needle-gun  while 
we  were  coming  around.  One  of  them  burst  in- 
side, but  didn't  kill  anybody.  Around  came  the 
Svend  Foyn. 

"Her  water-line!"  I  yelled,  and  we  let  her  have 
it.  And  again  we  gave  it  to  her.  They  both 
went  home. 

Red  Dick  quit  laughing.  He  ran  down  from 
the  bridge  and  out  of  sight  below.  Pretty  soon, 
through  her  sides,  as  we  hear  him  and  his  gang 
yelling,  came  the  ends  of  blankets  and  mattresses, 
to  keep  the  sea  out  of  the  holes  we'd  made. 

And  while  they  are  at  that  we  give  them  an- 
other. And  that  settled  it.  Five  minutes  before, 
I  had  an  idea  we  might  have  to  go  to  the  bottom 
— s-sst!  like  that.  And  now  Red  Dick  and  his 
cargo  steamer  were  belting  through  the  tide  rips 
toward  the  Terra  del  Fuego  shore,  to  find  a  bay, 
I  suppose,  and  a  bit  of  a  beach  to  haul  up  and 

281 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

patch  things.  And  I  couldn't  help  thinking  as  he 
went  that  he'd  lost  a  desperate  reputation  about 
as  easy  as  any  ever  I  heard  of;  but  I  might  as 
well  also  say  now  that  I'd  been  shipmates  with 
Red  Dick,  and  I  always  did  believe  he  was  a 
good  deal  of  a  bluff.  But  my  crew  didn't  think 
that.  There  was  great  rejoicing  among  them,  and 
I  let  them  rejoice  so  long  as  they  didn't  stop  set- 
ting things  to  rights. 

We  were  shook  up  some — our  bridge  loosened 
up,  our  wireless  hoops  hanging  droopy,  our  two 
fake  smoke-stacks  lying  over  on  their  sides,  and 
the  for'ard  turret  with  some  dents  in  it;  but 
bow  first,  and  in  peace  and  quiet,  we  steamed  on. 
And  we  were  still  steaming  in  peace  and  quiet 
when  we  made  Punta  Arenas. 

And,  steaming  in,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  do 
it  in  style.  Here  we  were,  a  victorious  battle- 
ship entering  a  foreign  port,  and  so  I  hoisted  our 
international  code — spelling  it  out  that  we  were 
the  Cape  Horn  of  the  Terra  del  Fuegan  navy,  and 
asking  permission  to  anchor.  The  captain  of  the 
American  battle-ship  was  standing  on  his  bridge 
as  we  steamed  down  the  line,  with  a  man  in  our 
chains  heaving  the  lead,  my  mate  on  the  fore- 
bridge  and  myself  on  the  after-bridge,  a  quarter- 
master to  the  wheel,  and  the  second  mate  spying, 
busy  as  could  be,  through  a  long  glass;  and  not 

282 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

alone  the  captain,  but  the  nine  hundred  and  odd 
officers  and  men  of  the  American  battle-ship  roared 
in  review  of  us.  The  other  ships  in  port  didn't 
know  what  to  make  of  it  no  way. 

We  came  around  and  dropped  our  young  an- 
chor, splash!  and  saluted  the  port — twenty-one 
guns  from  our  bomb-lance  things. 

Our  lieutenant  of  the  hunting  party  seemed  to 
be  officer  of  the  deck  on  the  real  battle-ship. 
"How'd  you  come  out?"  he  hails. 

"We  met  the  enemy  and  their  loot  is  ours," 
I  answers. 

"Captain  Fenton  presents  his  compliments  and 
would  like  to  have  you  come  aboard,"  he  hails. 

And  I  went  aboard,  sitting  in  the  stern-sheets 
of  my  second  boat,  with  the  red,  green,  and  purple 
flag  trailing  astern  and  eight  men  to  the  oars. 
And  they  gave  me  two  bosun's  pipes  with  four 
side-boys  and  two  long  ruffles  from  the  drums  as 
I  came  over  the  side,  and  in  the  captain's  cabin 
I  told  him  what  the  officers  of  the  hunting  party 
couldn't  tell  him  already.  And  he  thought  it  the 
best  story  he'd  heard  in  a  long  time. 

I  thought  it  was  a  pretty  good  story  myself, 
and  told  it  again  to  Mr.  Amundsen  on  the  same 
long  pier  where  I  had  first  met  him  with  Hilda, 
and  he  said  the  blood  of  the  old  vikings  must  be 
in  my  veins,  and  uncorked  four  solid  hours  of  the 

283 


Battle-Cruise  of  the  "Svend  Foyn" 

old  sagas,  finishing  up  in  the  big  front  room  with 
flat  bread  and  goats'  cheese  and  dried  ptarmigan 
chips  and  Trondhjem  beer. 

By  and  by  I  got  a  chance  to  tell  it  to  Hilda 
— that  and  a  little  more  while  I  was  telling  it. 
The  band,  a  fine  band,  too,  was  playing  their 
Sunday-night  concert  out  in  the  plaza.  I  remem- 
ber how  the  music  made  pictures  in  my  brain 
while  I  talked,  though  \  never  could  remember 
what  they  played. 

However,  that's  no  matter.  Hilda  says  I  told 
the  story  right  that  night.  And  I've  told  it  many 
a  time  since — to  her  and  the  children  when  I'm 
home  from  sea.  They  are  good  children,  who  be- 
lieve everything  that  is  told  them — even  the  sagas 
of  their  grandfather. 


284 


THE  LAST  PASSENGER 


The  Last  Passenger 

MEADE  was  having  his  coffee  in  the  smo- 
king-room.    Major   Crupp   came   in    and 
took  a  seat  beside  him. 

A  watchful  steward  hurried  over.  "Coffee, 
sir?" 

"Please." 

"Cigarette,  Major?"  asked  Meade. 

"I  will— thanks." 

Lavis  came  in.  Both  men  passed  the  greetings 
of  the  evening  with  him,  and  then  Meade,  at 
least,  forgot  that  he  existed.  Only  interesting 
people  were  of  value  to  Meade,  and  he  had  early 
in  the  passage  appraised  Lavis — one  of  those 
negligible  persons  whose  habit  was  to  hover  near 
some  group  of  notables  and  look  at  them  or  lis- 
ten to  them,  and,  if  encouraged,  join  in  the  con- 
versation, or,  if  invited,  take  a  hand  in  a  game 
of  cards. 

"Seen  Cadogan  since  dinner,  Major?"  asked 
Meade. 

"He's  patrolling  the  deck  right  now." 

"With  the  beautiful  lady?" 
287 


The  Last  Passenger 

"Nope— alone." 

"Thank  God!    And  where  is  she?" 

"Oh,  she's  nicely  enthroned,  thank  you,  in  an 
angle  of  the  loungeroom  with  that  sixty-million- 
aire coal  baron,  Drissler." 

"It's  bath-tubs,  and  he's  only  got  twenty  mil- 
lions." 

"The  poor  beggar!  Well,  Meade,  if  ever  she 
gets  within  shelling  distance  of  his  little  twenty 
millions  they'll  melt  like  a  dobey  house  in  the 


rain." 


"No  doubt  of  that,  I  guess.  And  yet — and  yet 
up  to  late  this  afternoon,  at  least,  she  appeared 
to  be  delighting  in  the  presence  of  Cadogan." 

"She  surely  did.  But" — Major  Crupp  eyed 
Meade  quizzically — "what  are  you  worrying 
about?" 

"I'm  afraid  she  hasn't  really  shook  him.  I 
know  too  much  about  her.  The  twenty  millions 
would  be  nice  to  draw  upon,  but  her  one  un- 
quenchable passion  is  man,  and  in  build,  looks, 
age,  and  temperament  Cadogan  is  just  one  rich 
prize.  But  how  do  you  account  for  Cadogan? 
He's  certainly  bright  enough  in  other  matters." 

Crupp  projected  three  smoke  rings  across  the 
table  at  Meade.  "I  was  stationed  in  the  wilds 
of  the  Philippines  one  time.  The  native  women 
where  I  was  were  unwashed,  bow-legged,  black 

288 


The  Last  Passenger 

creatures  about  four  feet  high.  After  three  years 
of  it  I  returned  home  in  a  government  transport. 
I  landed  in  San  Francisco.  At  first  I  thought  it 
was  a  dream." 

"Thought  what  was  a  dream,  Major?" 

"The  women  going  by.  I  posted  myself  on 
the  corner  of  two  streets,  and  there  I  stood  trans- 
fixed, except  every  ten  minutes  or  so,  when  Yd 
run  into  the  hotel  bar  behind  me  and  have  an- 
other drink.  And  I'd  come  out  again,  and  I'd 
take  another  look  at  those  big,  beautiful,  up- 
standing creatures  floating  by,  hosts  and  hosts  of 
'em,  and  I'd  whisper  to  myself:  'Cruppie,  you're 
dead.  You've  been  boloed  on  outpost  and  gone 
to  heaven,  and  you  don't  know  it.'  And  googoo- 
eyed  I  kept  staring  at  'em,  investing  every  last 
one  of  'em  with  a  double  halo,  till  a  long,  splay- 
footed, thin-necked  hombre  in  a  policeman's  uni- 
form came  along  and  says:  'Here,  you,  I've  been 
pipin'  you  off  for  about  four  hours  now.  About 
time  you  moved  on,  ain't  it?'  Lord,  and  not  one 
of  'em  that  couldn't  have  married  me  on  the 
spot,  I  held  'em  in  such  respect." 

"Thick,  wasn't  he?" 

"I  thought  so — then.  But  I  wonder  if  Caddie 
would  think  we  were  thick,  too,  if  we  told  him 
to  move  on?  He's  just  back,  remember,  from 
two  years  in  the  jungle,  and  her  eyes  haven't 

289 


The  Last  Passenger 

changed  color  and  her  hair  still  shines  like  a  new 
gold  shoulder-knot  at  dress  parade.  She  is  still 
beautiful — and  clever." 

"Clever?  She's  surely  that;  but  he's  only  a 
boy,  Major." 

"  M-m — twenty-six ! " 

"What's  twenty-six?  He's  still  a  dreaming  boy. 
I'd  like  to  say  what  I  really  thought  of  her." 

"Don't.  They'd  be  having  a  squad  of  stew- 
ards in  here  to  police  the  place  after  you  got 
through." 

"Why  don't  you  give  him  a  hint?" 

"Huh!  No,  no,  Mister  Meade — I'm  still  young 
and  fair.  You  break  it  to  him.  Who  knows, 
your  age  may  save  you  from  being  projected 
through  the  nearest  embrasure!"  Crupp  crushed 
the  smoking  end  of  his  cigarette  against  the  ash- 
tray. "I'll  have  to  run  along  now." 

"Back  soon?" 

"After  I've  said  good  night  to  two  or  three 
dear  old  ladies  in  the  loungeroom  before  they 
go  below." 

"And  two  or  three  dear  young  ladies  who 
won't  be  going  below." 

"Don't  be  saucy,  Meade.  You  look  out  of 
uniform  when  you  try  to  be  saucy.  Exactness 
as  to  fact  and  luminosity  of  language — that's 
you,  if  you  please." 

290 


The  Last  Passenger 

"Bring  Vogel  on  your  way  back." 
"If  I  can  detach  him  from  his  beloved  maps. 
Forty  millions  in  railroads  he's  got  now.     And 
colored  maps  of  'em  he's  got.     He  gloats  over 
'em — gloats,  every  night  before  he  turns  in." 

"Hurry  him  up,  anyway.  And  drive  Cado- 
gan  in.  I'll  get  him  going  on  a  few  adventures, 
and  make  him  forget  his  beautiful  lady." 

Lavis  had  been  sitting  on  the  transom.  He 
always  seemed  to  be  sitting  on  the  transom — a 
long,  lean,  huddled-up  figure  in  the  corner,  look- 
ing out  with  half-closed  eyes  on  the  life  of  the 
smoking-room. 

Cadogan  came  in.  Meade  revolved  the  chair 
next  to  him  at  the  table,  so  that  Cadogan  had 
only  to  fall  into  it.  Cadogan  abstractedly  nodded 
his  thanks.  Catching  sight  of  Lavis,  he  nodded 
and  smiled. 

With  eyes  staring  absently  into  space  Cado- 
gan was  drumming  on  the  table  with  his  fingers. 

"Sounds  like  some  tom-tom  march  you're  try- 
ing to  play,"  interrupted  Meade,  and  proffered  a 
cigar.  Cadogan  shook  his  head. 

"No?"  Meade  dropped  his  cigar  placidly  back 
into  its  case.  "But  listen  here,  Cadogan.  As  a 
writer  and  newspaper  man,  my  main  business  in 
life  is  to  discover  people  who  know  more  than 

291 


The  Last  Passenger 

other  people  about  some  particular  thing,  and 
then  get  it  out  of  them.  What  about  this  ocean- 
liner  travelling  of  to-day — is  it  perfectly  safe?" 

"The  safest  mode  of  travel  ever  devised — or 
should  be." 

"But  lives  are  lost?" 

"Surely.  And  probably  will  be.  But  they 
should  not  be — not  on  the  high  sea — except  in  a 
collision,  and  then  probably  one  ship  or  the  other 
is  to  blame.  Even  inshore,  if  they  keep  their 
lead  and  foghorn  going,  and  steam  up  to  kick 
her  off,  nothing  will  happen  either,  unless" — he 
shrugged  his  shoulders — "they've  gone  foolish  or 
something  else  on  the  bridge." 

Meade  questioned  further.  And  Cadogan  an- 
swered briefly,  abstractedly,  until — Meade  grow- 
ing more  cunning  and  subtle — he  was  led  into 
citing  one  experience  after  another  from  out  of 
his  own  life  in  proof  of  this  or  that  side  of  an 
argument. 

Cadogan  had  begun  in  short,  snappy  sentences, 
and  in  a  tense,  rather  high-keyed  voice;  but  once 
warmed  up  he  swung  along  in  rounded,  almost 
classic  periods;  and  his  voice  deepened  and  soft- 
ened and,  as  he  became  yet  more  absorbed  in  his 
subject,  grew  rhythmical,  musical  almost,  the 
while  his  words  took  on  added  color  and  glow. 

Once  in  full  swing  it  was  not  difficult  for  Meade 
292 


The  Last  Passenger 

to  get  him  to  run  on;  and  he  ran  on  for  an  hour, 
and  would  have  gone  on  indefinitely  only,  sud- 
denly coming  to  himself  and  looking  around,  he 
discovered  that  half  the  room  had  gathered  in  a 
semicircle  behind  his  chair.  He  flushed,  cut  his 
story  short,  and  said  no  more.  The  crowd  dis- 
persed to  their  various  seats. 

Presently  Meade  observed:  "How  did  you 
ever  find  time  in  your  young  life  for  the  half  of 
it?  And  how  you  do  suggest  things — possibili- 
ties that  try  a  man's  spirit  even  to  contemplate!" 

Cadogan  did  not  respond;  but  from  Lavis,  the 
man  on  the  transom,  came:  "And  now  you  are 
suggesting  the  really  great  adventuring!" 

Meade  turned  in  surprise.     "What  is  that?" 

"Isn't  it  in  the  spirit  we  have  the  really  great 
adventures  ? " 

Meade  studied  him  curiously.  "You  mean 
that  the  most  thrilling  adventures  are  those  we 
only  dream  about,  but  which  never  happen?" 

"I  didn't  mean  exactly  that,  for  they  do  hap- 
pen. What  I  meant  was  that  to  try  your  body 
was  nothing,  but  to  try  your  soul — try  it  to  the 
utmost — there  would  be  something." 

"To  risk  it  or  try  it?"  asked  Meade. 

"Oh,  to  try  it  only.  To  risk  it,  would  not  that 
be  sinful?" 

Cadogan's  instinctive  liking  for  Lavis  had  led 
293 


The  Last  Passenger 

him  from  the  beginning  of  the  voyage  to  take  a 
keen  interest  in  whatever  he  might  do  or  say; 
but  until  to-night  he  had  found  him  a  most  un- 
obtrusive and  taciturn  man.  He  had  a  feeling  that 
this  man,  who  before  to-night  had  barely  said 
more  than  good  morning  and  good  night  to  him, 
understood  him  much  better  than  did  Meade,  the 
professional  observer,  who  was  forever  question- 
ing him.  The  answer  to  Meade's  last  question 
stirred  him  particularly,  because  he  felt  that  it 
was  meant,  not  for  Meade,  but  for  himself. 

Thinking  of  Meade,  who  was  a  famous  author 
and  journalist,  Cadogan  said  hesitatingly  and 
shyly:  "Fve  often  thought  I'd  like  to  be  a  writer." 
He  meant  that  for  Lavis,  but  it  was  Meade  who 
took  it  to  himself  to  ask  him  why. 

"If  I  were  a  writer,  I'd  have  hope  right  now 
of  taking  part  in  one  of  the  greatest  adventures 
that  could  befall  a  man." 

"Where,  Cadogan?" 

"Right  aboard  this  ship.  How?  Here  we  are 
tearing  through  the  iceberg  country  trying  to 
make  a  record.  If  ever  we  piled  up  head  on  to 
one  of  those  icebergs,  where  would  we  be?" 

"But  it  is  a  clear  night.     And  the  lookouts." 

"Never  mind  the  clear  night — or  the  lookouts 
if  they  are  not  looking  out." 

"But  this  ship  can't  sink." 
294 


The  Last  Passenger 

"No?  But  suppose  she  can  sink,  and  that 
she  is  sinking.  There  are  four  thousand  people 
aboard — and  down  she  goes.  Wouldn't  that  be 
an  experience?" 

With  meditative  eyes  directed  down  to  the 
ashes  at  the  end  of  his  cigar,  Meade  mulled  over 
the  question.  "A  great  adventure  it  surely  would 
be,"  he  at  length  emitted  from  behind  a  puff  of 
smoke.  "The  right  man,  a  great  writer,  for  in- 
stance, if  he  could  live  through  that,  would  make 
a  world's  epic  of  it." 

Cadogan  wondered  what  the  man  on  the  tran- 
som was  thinking  of.  He  put  his  next  question 
directly  to  him.  "There  would  be  some  great 
deaths  in  such  an  event,  don't  you  think,  sir?" 
His  own  eyes  were  glowing. 

"Some  great  deaths,  surely — and  some  horrible 
ones,  doubtless,  too." 

"Oh,  but  men  would  die  like  gods  at  such  a 
time!" 

"No  doubt — and  like  dogs  also." 

Meade  did  not  relish  losing  control  of  the  con- 
versation to  an  undistinguished  outsider.  "Look 
here,  Cadogan,"  he  interjected;  "could  a  man  live 
through  that — go  down  with  the  ship  and  sur- 
vive?" 

"He  could  survive  the  sinking — yes;  but  he 
would  not  live  long — not  in  water  near  icebergs. 

295 


The  Last  Passenger 

The  numbness  soon  creeps  up  to  your  heart,  and 
then " 

"But  how  could  a  man  do  it  and  live?" 

"Why,  sir,  do  you  insist  that  he  should  live?" 
It  was  Lavis  who  had  spoken. 

Meade's  eyebrows  rose  above  the  tops  of  his 
horn  glasses.  "Eh!"  Cadogan,  too,  stared  at 
Lavis. 

"To  live  after  it  would  be  only  to  half  com- 
plete the  adventure.  We  began  by  speaking  of 
an  adventure  in  the  spirit.  To  make  a  real,  a 
great  adventure  of  it,  should  not  the  man  die?" 

Meade  now  smiled  with  obvious  tolerance. 
"But  a  man  dead  and  buried  in  the  depths  of 
the  sea!" 

"That  would  only  be  his  body,  and  we  were 
speaking  of  an  adventure  of  the  spirit — of  the 
soul.  The  man  should  experience  every  physical 
dread,  every  nervous  fear,  every  emotional  horror 
of  those  last  few  minutes,  share  the  bitterness  of 
the  disillusionment  inevitable  when  three  or  four 
thousand  ordinary,  every-day  human  beings  are 
dying  in  despair,  because,  as  they  would  judge 
it,  dying  so  needlessly.  To  get  the  full  measure 
of  it,  and  to  share  also  in  the  sweetness  and  resig- 
nation of  great  souls  in  the  hour  of  death,  would 
not  his  mortal  body  have  to  meet  death,  even  as 
the  others?" 

296 


The  Last  Passenger 

Meade  readjusted  his  horned  spectacles.  He 
would  have  to  revise  his  notes  of  the  man,  that 
was  plain.  Forty,  or  forty-five  possibly,  he  was. 
Tall  and  large-framed,  but  spare,  thin-cheeked, 
and  hollow-templed,  with  white  streaks  among 
the  close-clipped,  very  black,  and  very  thick  hair 
which  showed  from  under  his  cap.  A  worn- 
looking  man,  a  student.  M-m — he  had  him 
now — a  teacher  of  the  classics  in  some  college, 
possibly  a  young  women's  college. 

"To  get  back  to  our  steamer  and  your  extraor- 
dinary proposition,"  suggested  Meade;  "you  say 
that  the  man  should  actually  die?" 

"Surely  die.  And  he  should  face  death  even 
as  our  highly  vitalized  young  friend  here  faces 
life.  Mr.  Cadogan,  coming  back  to  us  from  peril- 
ous experiences,  makes  us  share  with  him  in  every 
tremor,  every  dread,  every  thought  he  himself 
felt  in  his  adventure.  And  how  does  he  manage 
to  do  that?  Isn't  it  because  in  the  perilous  mo- 
ment his  soul  remains  tranquil?  If  death  comes, 
well  and  good — it  cannot  be  helped;  if  not,  then 
a  glorious  adventure.  He  meets  danger  with 
every  faculty  keyed  up  to  the  highest.  Now,  if 
a  man  would  meet  his  death,  as  this  steamer  went 
down,  in  the  same  mood,  would  he  not  march 
into  the  shadows  with  a  soul  ennobled?" 

"And  then  what?" 

297 


The  Last  Passenger 

"Then?  If  we  are  heirs  in  spirit  even  as  in 
body  will  God  ever  allow  a  great  spirit  to  become 
extinct?" 

Meade  abandoned  his  young-ladies'-teacher 
supposition.  He  speared  the  man  with  another 
glance.  "Pardon  me,  you  are  not  a  scientist?" 

Lavis  smiled — for  the  first  time.  "Do  I  talk 
like  one?" 

"You  do  not  believe,  then,  in  present-day  scien- 
tific methods?" 

"I  believe  in  any  constructive  method,  but" — 
he  betrayed  a  shadow  of  impatience — "why  limit 
our  beliefs  to  what  can  be  proved  with  a  surgeon's 
knife?" 

Meade  thought  he  remembered  that  Roman 
Catholic  priests  were  on  special  occasions  allowed 
to  travel  without  the  outer  garb  of  their  calling; 
but  would  a  priest  talk  so  freely  to  a  stranger? 
And  yet —  "You  must  have  had  a  religious 
training  at  some  time  in  your  life?" 

Lavis  smiled  again,  but  more  slowly.  "You 
are  persistent,  Mr.  Meade." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  It  is  the  journalist's  in- 
terviewing habit.  And  I  thought  I  recalled, 
also- 

Lavis  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  Meade  to  fin- 
ish, but  Meade,  who  suddenly  realized  to  what 
he  was  leading,  did  not  finish;  and  Lavis  turned 

298 


The  Last  Passenger 

his  head  so  as  to  look  squarely  at  Cadogan. 
Through  the  half-closed,  wistful  eyes  Cadogan 
caught  a  gleam  that  he  again  felt  was  an  answer 
to  Meade's  unfinished  question,  and  yet  was  again 
meant,  not  for  Meade,  but  for  himself. 

"But  to  return,"  persisted  Meade;  "how  is 
the  world  to  benefit  by  your  theory  that  God 
does  not  allow  a  great  spirit  to  die?" 

"Well,  call  it  theory.  After  the  mortal  death 
of  a  man  whose  dying  was  a  tremendous  experi- 
ence, there  will  be  born  again  a  great  soul.  And 
if  the  being  in  whom  that  soul  is  enshrined  is 
but  true  to  the  best  in  himself,  he  will  attain  to 
the  utterance  of  a  great  message,  compel  the  world 
to  listen  to  his  message;  and  the  world,  having 
listened,  will  be  for  all  time  the  better." 

"I  suppose" — Meade  was  by  now  not  wholly 
free  of  self-consciousness — "a  man  should  have 
had  a  training  as  a  writer  to  best  fit  him  for  such 
an  experience?" 

"Writer,  sculptor,  painter,  musician,  lawgiver 
— anything,  so  that  he  possesses  the  germ,  the 
potential  power  to  make  others  see,  hear,  or  feel 
things  as  he  does." 

"But  who  aboard  this  ship  possesses  such  a 
gift?" 

Lavis  turned  to  Cadogan.     "Here  is  the  man." 

"Who!"  Cadogan  bounded  in  his  seat;  and 
299 


The  Last  Passenger 

then,  smiling  at  himself:    "That's  a  good  one — I 
took  it  seriously." 

"Take  it  seriously,  please." 

Cadogan  instantly  sobered.  "But  I'm  not 
aching  to  die.  And  the  Lord  never  intended  me 
for  a  martyr." 

"Are  you  sure  you  know  what  the  Lord  in- 
tended you  for?  You  have  done  great  deeds  in 
one  way.  You  could  do  great  deeds  in  another 
way.  A  great  deed  is  never  more  than  a  great 
thought  in  action.  You  need  but  the  great 
thought  to  give  the  great  deed  birth." 

"But  I  never  originated  a  great  thought  in 
my  life." 

"What  man  ever  did?  The  seeds  of  great 
thoughts  are  born  in  us,  which  means  that  they 
come  from  God.  But  great  deeds  are  man's. 
And  if  it  should  come  to  pass  in  your  adventur- 
ous life  that  you  go  to  a  calamitous  death,  it 
may  not  be  altogether  a  pity.  If  your  heart  re- 
mains pure  as  now,  it  surely  would  not  be.  You 
have  every  qualification,  if  you  could  but  be  born 
again." 

"Why  wouldn't  you  yourself  be  the  man  for 
such  a  thing?"  It  was  Meade,  eying  the  man 
from  under  contracted  eyebrows,  who  put  this 
question. 

"Thanks!"  Lavis's  smile  was  almost  percep- 
tible. 

300 


The  Last  Passenger 


I  did  not  mean- 


"No  harm.  It  would  require  the  creative  gen- 
ius. I  am  no  longer  creative." 

"But  you  have  an  intellect." 

"Meaning  that  I  have  a  well-developed  muscle 
in  the  brain?  The  man  who  lifts  heavy  weights 
in  the  circus  has  also  a  well-developed  muscle  in 
his  arm,  or  back,  or  legs,  but  what  does  he  teach 
us  that  is  for  the  betterment  of  the  race?  But 
Mr.  Cadogan  here  has  the  flaming  soul.  And  the 
last  passenger  on  this  ship  should  be  such  as  he, 
a  strong  man  with  the  innocence  of  the  child."  He 
turned  from  the  older  to  the  younger  man.  "You 
are  creative  in  thought,  powerful,  direct,  tireless 
in  action,  Mr.  Cadogan.  Every  new  experience 
still  comes  to  you  with  the  dew  of  the  morning 
on  it.  You  should  die  hard,  with  your  eyes  open 
to  the  last.  Nothing  would  escape  you.  And 
you  would  know  what  dying  was,  because  for 
you  to  give  up  life  would  be  a  great  renuncia- 


tion." 


Cadogan    shook   his   head.    "Even   if  all    the 
rest  of  it  were  true,  I  have  nothing  in  life  to 


renounce." 


"How  can  you  know  that?  You  would  be  re- 
nouncing a  limitless  capacity  for  enjoyment,  if 
nothing  more."  Lavis  rose  to  his  feet.  "I  hope 
I  haven't  bored  you  too  much?  I  think  I  will 
go  out  and  get  some  fresh  air."  He  bowed  and 

301 


The  Last  Passenger 

smiled  to  Meade,  smiled  more  warmly  on  Cado- 
gan,  wrapped  his  top-coat  over  his  evening  clothes, 
and  went  out  on  deck. 

Meade  saw  that  Cadogan  was  gazing  thought- 
fully on  the  seat  which  Lavis  had  vacated. 
"What  do  you  make  of  him,  Cadogan?" 

Cadogan's  face,  when  he  swung  his  chair  around, 
was  flushed,  his  dark-blue  eyes  more  glowing  than 
usual.  "I  don't  know,  except  that  he  had  me 
thinking.  He  made  me  feel  that  he  was  reading 
my  mind,  and  before  he  left  I  was  saying  to  my- 
self, 'When  I  grow  older  I'll  be  something  like 
him,'  only,  of  course,  with  less  brains  than  he's 
got." 

"You'll  have  brains  enough,  don't  fear.  He 
made  me  think  of  the  head  of  a  religious  order 
who  went  wrong  some  years  ago.  But  that  was 
before  I  knew  much  of  the  inside  of  Continental 
affairs.  A  woman,  as  I  recall  it.  However,  he's 
gone — he  made  my  head  ache  trying  to  follow  him, 
and — but  there  is  the  major  and  Vogel  passing 
the  port-hole.  I'll  call  them  in  and  we'll  have 
our  little  rubber." 

They  sat  in  to  their  little  rubber,  and  while 
they  played  a  passenger  of  importance  was  auc- 
tioning ofF  the  pool  on  the  ship's  run  for  the  next 
day. 

302 


The  Last  Passenger 

He  stood  on  a  table  to  see  and  be  seen,  a  short, 
fat,  bearded  man  who  sometimes  had  to  pause  for 
breath.  "Here  she  is,  gentlemen,  the  largest 
ship  of  all  time  making  marine  history.  What 
d'y'  say,  gentlemen?  We  all  know  what  we  did 
up  to  noon  to-day.  We  did  even  better,  impos- 
sible though  it  may  seem,  this  afternoon.  Now, 
what  am  I  offered  for  the  high  field?  Come  now, 
gentlemen.  By  Tuesday  morning,  at  ten  o'clock, 
are  we  to  be  abreast  of  Sandy  Hook  or  not?  It 
will  be  a  record  run  if  we  make  it,  but  whether 
we  are  a  few  minutes  late  or  early,  every  indica- 
tion points  to  a  grand  day's  run  for  to-morrow. 
Come,  gentlemen,  bid  up!" 

"What  of  the  rumors  of  icebergs?"  asked  a 
voice. 

"Pray  do  not  joke,  gentlemen.  I  beg  of  you, 
do  not  joke.  Has  any  person  here  observed  any 
notice  of  icebergs  posted  on  the  ship's  board  ?  I 
fancy  not.  To-day  I  myself  put  the  question  to 
the  man  whose  word  is  law  on  this  ship.  Do  I 
have  to  name  him,  gentlemen?  No  need,  is 
there?  No.  'Are  we  going  to  slow  down?'  was 
my  question.  'On  the  contrary,  we  are  going  to 
go  faster,'  was  the  reply." 

There  was  a  laugh.  "Seventy  pounds!"  was 
called. 

"That's  the  spirit,  gentlemen.  Seventy  pounds 
303 


The  Last  Passenger 

for  the  high  field.  The  gentleman  who  shall  be 
fortunate  enough  to  win  this  pool  will  have  some- 
thing to  brag  about  in  future  days.  Come,  now, 
how  much  for  the  high  field?  Seventy-five? 
Good!  Gentlemen,  I  am  offered — 

"What's  the  high  field  worth,  Cadogan?" 
asked  Vogel. 

"All  you  want  to  bid,  if  nothing  goes  wrong. 
But  with  ship's  officers  spending  more  time  with 
distinguished  passengers  than  on  the  bridge,  I 
wouldn't  give  a  nickel  for  it." 

"I  won't  bid,  then." 

The  voice  of  the  man  on  the  table  was  increas- 
ing in  volume.  "Eighty-five  pounds  I  am  offered 
for  the  high  field.  It  is  not  enough,  not  enough 
by  far,  gentlemen — eh!  Eh,  I  say." 

The  ship  heaved,  not  violently;  gently  rather, 
under  them.  There  was  an  easy,  slight  roll  to 
port,  a  dull,  almost  noiseless  bumping,  a  slow, 
heavy  resistance,  as  of  a  heavy  object  being 
forced  over  a  stubbornly  yielding  surface. 

To  either  side  of  him  and  in  the  mirrors  Cado- 
gan could  see  a  dozen  men  peer  inquiringly  up 
over  cards  or  books  or  glasses.  Meade  stared 
around  the  room.  "What  the  devil's  that?"  he 
asked,  and  held  a  card  high,  with  eyes  directed 
to  the  nearest  deck  door. 

There  was  a  recoil  of  the  ship,  which  slowly 
304 


The  Last  Passenger 

and  gently,  but  surely  and  almost  comically,  to 
Cadogan's  way  of  thinking,  urged  the  stout  waist 
of  Meade  against  the  edge  of  the  table. 

Cadogan  waited  his  last  turn  to  play,  laid  down 
his  card,  and  scooped  in  the  trick.  "Forty  on 
points,  eight  on  honors,  Major,"  he  said,  and  set 
it  down.  "If  nobody  minds,  I'll  step  out  on 
deck  and  see  what  stopped  her." 

"Stopped!     Is  she  stopped?"  exclaimed  Vogel. 

"She  is."  Cadogan  strolled  out  of  the  smoking- 
room.  Three  or  four  had  preceded  him;  half  a 
dozen,  who  had  nothing  else  to  do,  strolled  out 
after  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  those  who  had  gone  out  were 
beginning  to  return.  "Well,  what  do  you  know 
about  that?"  whooped  the  first  one.  "Hit  a 
lump  of  ice!  Lucky  for  the  ice  we  didn't  hit  it 
fair,  with  this  forty-five-thousand-tonner  going 
along  at  twenty  five  or  six  knots  an  hour  like 
she  is!" 

Several  laughed  at  that,  and  Major  Crupp,  who 
was  patiently  riffling  the  cards,  called  out  to  the 
last  speaker:  "Did  you  see  Mr.  Cadogan  out 
there?" 

"I  saw  him  going  toward  the  bow  of  the  ship, 
Major,"  was  the  answer. 

"Investigating,  I  suppose.  Well,  suppose  we 
play  dummy — what  do  you-all  say? — till  Caddie 

305 


The  Last  Passenger 

comes  back.  He's  possessed  of  a  demon  for  find- 
ing out  things.  Your  deal,  Mr.  Vogel." 

A  steward  stepped  in  from  the  deck.  "Major 
Crupp,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  Cadogan  told  me  to  say  not  to  wait  till 
he  came  back,  sir,  but  to  go  on  with  the  game,  sir." 

Vogel  picked  up  his  cards.  "How  long  will  we 
be  delayed,  steward?" 

"Oh,  not  more  than  an  hour  or  two,  they  say, 


sir." 


"H-m-m" — Vogel  stared  reflectively  at  the 
table — "I'll  have  to  buy  Cadogan  a  good  smoke 
when  he  comes  back.  He  saved  me  ninety  or  a 
hundred  pounds  on  that  high  field." 

They  resumed  play. 

II 

Lavis  was  pacing  the  wide  promenade  deck 
and  sniffing  the  air  as  he  paced.  It  was  as  if  a 
breath  of  the  north  were  on  them,  and  yet — hav- 
ing reached  the  uncovered  part  of  the  deck  astern 
he  looked  up  to  observe  the  steamer's  smoke — 
the  wind  was  not  from  the  north. 

Such  passengers  as  were  still  making  their 
rounds  were  doing  so  determinedly,  in  sweaters 
or  top-coats.  Without  halting  in  their  rapid  walk- 

306 


The  Last  Passenger 

ing  they,  too,  at  times  drew  short,  sharp  breaths 
through  high-held  nostrils.  It  surely  was  grow- 
ing colder.  But  why  ?  A  group  held  up  an  officer 
who  was  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  lee  of  the  can- 
vas forward  to  ask  him  why.  He  at  once  set  them 
right  about  it.  Why,  surely  it  should  be  cool — 
on  the  North  Atlantic,  in  April,  and  well  on  in 
the  evening! 

A  couple  that  Lavis  knew  for  bride  and  groom 
turned  out  to  lean  over  the  rail.  He  was  point- 
ing down  by  the  ship's  side.  "Hardly  a  ripple  on 
it — see!"  he  exclaimed.  "Only  for  the  bubbling 
up  from  underneath,  none  at  all.  Like  an  end- 
less belt  sliding  by  so  smoothly,  isn't  it?  And 
above — see,  sweetheart — a  clear  sky." 

"Ah-h,  a  beautiful  night!"  she  murmured. 
"On  such  a  night — "  Lavis,  as  he  turned  the 
corner  of  the  house,  saw  him  snatch  her  close  and 
kiss  her. 

In  lounge  and  smoking  rooms  all  was  cosey, 
cheerful,  lively  company.  Lavis  in  passing  had 
only  to  glance  into  air-ports  to  be  sure  of  that. 
It  was  card-playing  and  easy  gossip  in  the  one, 
and  not  infrequent  drinks  being  brought  to  im- 
patient men  by  alert,  deferential,  many-buttoned 
servants  in  the  other.  In  the  grill  those  who 
must  have  a  special  little  bite  before  turning  in 
were  having  it;  and,  this  being  a  chilly  sort  of  a 

307 


The  Last  Passenger 

night,  there  were  those  who  were  also  having  a 
warming  drink,  with  the  bite  or  without  it. 

It  was  growing  late.  The  deck  was  now  almost 
deserted.  Lavis  took  a  last  look  over  the  rail,  a 
last  gulp  of  the  cooling  air,  and  went  into  the 
loungeroom.  Here  he  got  from  the  steward  pa- 
per and  envelopes,  sat  down  and  wrote: 

Now  see  that  you  make  no  attempt  to  lure  him  back. 

There  was  no  address,  no  signature.  He  sealed 
the  envelope  and  went  below  to  where,  at  the 
end  of  a  passageway,  he  found  a  stewardess  on 
watch.  "Miss  Huttle  hasn't  come  down  yet, 
Hannah?" 

"No,  sir,  Mr.  Lavis." 

"No?    Well,  there  is  a  party  in  Mr.  Drissler's 


suite." 


"Mr.  Drissler,  sir?" 

"The  wealthy  man  in  the  royal  suite." 

"Oh,  yes,  sir." 

"Miss  Huttle  is  there.  You  take  this  note  to 
her  there,  and  let  me  know  that  it  has  been  de- 
livered, please." 

Lavis  went  to  his  room,  got  out  a  long,  loose 
linen  duster  from  his  wardrobe,  removed  his  top- 
coat, pulled  the  duster  over  his  evening  clothes, 
found  an  old  cloth  cap,  and  waited  for  the  return 
of  the  stewardess. 

308 


The  Last  Passenger 

She  came  presently.     "I  gave  it  to  Miss  Hut- 
tie,  Mr.  Lavis.     Into  her  own  hand,  sir." 
"Thank  you,  Hannah." 

Lavis  left  his  room  and  descended  deep  down 
into  the  ship,  to  where  a  man  in  dungarees,  but 
with  an  officer's  cap  of  authority,  was  perched  on 
a  horizontal  grating  poring  over  the  speed  regis- 
ter. Over  his  shoulder  Lavis  watched  the  nu- 
merals shift — seven,  eight,  nine,  thirty.  One, 
two — eight,  nine,  forty.  Click,  click,  click,  click 
— he  watched  them  until  the  officer  turned  and 
saw  him. 

"Ho,  I  was  beginning  to  think  you'd  given  me 
the  go-by  for  to-night."  They  shook  hands. 

"Isn't  it  the  most  beautiful  mechanism  ever 
made  by  the  hand  of  man!"  exclaimed  the  of- 
ficer. "A  watch  is  nothing  to  it.  And  what 
you  see  here  cost  more  than  twenty  thousand 
watches — twenty  thousand  of  'em,  and  every 
danged  watch  in  a  gold  case." 

He  drew  out  his  own  gun-metal  stop-watch. 
"I'll  time  her  now  for  a  hundred  revolutions." 

He  caught  the  time,  set  it  down  in  a  little  note- 
book, and  from  it  slowly  but  surely  reckoned  her 
speed.  "Grand,  grand!"  he  said  softly.  "Will 
you  come  along?  Good!" 

They  descended  and  ascended  many  narrow 
309 


The  Last  Passenger 

iron  ladders  and  made  their  way  through  many 
narrow,  grimy  passageways.  Oilers,  stokers,  coal- 
passers,  water-tenders  straightened  up  to  give 
them  a  greeting  as  they  passed.  In  one  boiler- 
room  a  stoker  was  scooping  a  dipper  through  the 
water-pail  at  his  feet  as  they  entered. 

"Are  we  holding  our  own  this  watch,  Mr.  Lin- 
nell?"  He  held'  the  dipper  respectfully  in  sus- 
pense for  the  answer. 

"Holding  it?     Yes,  and  more." 

"Hi,  hi!  an' that  gang  went  off  watch  before 
us,  Mr.  Linnell — an*  I  fancy  they  rate  themselves 
a  competent  watch — among  themselves,  sir — they 
threw  it  at  us  as  how  we'd  do  mighty  well  to  hold 
our  own."  By  this  time  his  chief  had  passed 
on,  but  Lavis,  lingering,  saw  the  stoker  gulp  a 
mouthful  of  water,  hold  it  a  moment,  and  squirt 
it,  s-s-t !  contemptuously  into  a  heap  of  hot  ashes. 

Linnell  continued  his  rounds,  sparing  a  nod  here, 
a  nod  there,  almost  a  full  smile  at  times,  and  at 
times,  too,  a  sharp  snap  of  criticism.  Lavis  in 
his  rear  caught  the  pursuing  comment.  He  was 
the  kind,  was  the  chief,  to  soon  let  you  know 
where  you  stood.  And  right  he  was.  And  no 
one  would  begrudge  him  what  he  could  make  of 
the  passage,  if  so  be  he  could  make  a  bit  more  of 
reputation  out  of  it,  for  surely  his  heart  was  in 
his  work.  Never  one  to  loaf,  by  all  reports,  but 

310 


The  Last  Passenger 

this  time! — not  a  single  watch  without  his  full 
rounds  below. 

Lavis  followed  the  engineer  up  a  narrow  iron 
ladder,  and  thence  up  a  wide  iron  ladder,  to  where, 
from  a  heavily  grated  brass-railed  platform,  Lin- 
nell  surveyed  his  engines. 

He  laid  a  hand  on  Lavis's  shoulder  and  ex- 
tended an  eloquent  arm.  "Worth  looking  at, 
aren't  they?  The  largest  engines  ever  went  into 
a  ship,  those  engines  you  are  looking  at  now, 
Mr.  Lavis.  It  is  something  to  have  charge 
of  the  likes  of  them.  Wait  till  I  see  some  of  my 
old  mates!"  His  was  a  low,  chuckling  laugh. 
"I'll  be  having  a  word  to  say,  they  better  believe, 
of  ship's  engines!  Talking  of  their  ten  and 
twenty  thousand  tonners — ferry-boats,  river  ferry- 
boats, that's  what  I'll  tell  'em  they  have  along- 
side o'  this  one.  And  everything  working  beau- 
tifully"— he  hesitated  a  moment — "leastwise  in 
my  division.  An'  why  shouldn't  it,  Mr.  Lavis, 
after  four  days  and  three  nights  now  of  never 
closing  an  eye  for  more  than  two  hours  together  ? 
But  two  nights  and  another  day  now,  an'  'twill 
be  all  behind  us.  And  something  to  put  behind 
a  man,  that — a  record-breakin'  maiden  passage 
of  the  greatest  ship  ever  built.  And — but  I'm 
gassin'  again.  We'll  be  moving  on." 

Lavis  followed  Linnell  to  where  a  man  in  grimy 


The  Last  Passenger 

blue  dungarees  was  standing  silent  watch.  Be- 
fore him  was  a  row  of  levers  and  beside  him  a 
dial  on  which  were  words  in  very  black  letters: 
FULL  SPEED,  HALF  SPEED,  and  so  on.  To  one 
side  was  a  disk  around  which  two  colored  arrows, 
one  red  and  one  green,  were  racing.  A  gong  was 
at  the  man's  ear.  At  his  feet  was  a  pit  into 
which  a  great  mass  of  highly  polished  steel  was 
driving  in  and  out,  in  and  out,  up  and  down 
ceaselessly. 

Linnell  studied  the  colored  arrows  as  they  sped 
around  the  disk.  "Port  engine  a  bit  the  best  of 
it?"  He  had  to  speak  into  the  man's  ear  to  make 
himself  heard. 

The  man  in  dungarees  nodded.     "A  wee  bit, 


sir." 


"How's  all  else?" 

"  Couldn't  be  better,  sir."  He  had  to  yell  to 
make  himself  heard.  "Are  we  holding  our  own, 
sir?" 

"A  full  revolution  better  than  any  watch  since 
we  left  port." 

The  man  nodded  as  if  he  had  been  expecting  it, 
but  presently  chuckled  and  swung  one  foot  play- 
fully toward  the  glittering  gray  cross-head  as  it 
went  driving  down  into  the  pit.  "A  full  revo- 
lution!" he  echoed — "t-t-t" — and  spat  with  ob- 
vious significance  into  the  pit. 

312 


The  Last  Passenger 

"T-t-t — "  mimicked  Linnell,  and  slapped  him 
lightly  on  the  shoulder  before  he  turned  to  Lavis. 

"Will  you  go  farther  or  wait  here?" 

"I'll  wait  here,  if  you  don't  mind,  and  stand 
part  of  the  watch  with  Andie." 

"Very  good!     I'll  pick  you  up  later." 

Lavis,  standing  beside  Andie  and  gazing  into 
the  pit,  pointed  to  the  great  cross-head  driving  by. 
"If  that  were  to  fly  out  and  go  through  the  bot- 
tom of  the  ship,  Andie,  would  it  sink  her?" 

Andie  projected  his  lower  lip.  "It  might  sink 
her,  sir,  though  it  don't  seem  possible-like.  But 
if  it  did  sink  her,  'twould  be  about  the  only  way 
to  sink  her,  sir." 

Lavis  let  his  eyes  roam  above  and  about 
him.  Andie  observed  the  direction  of  his  gaze. 
"A  wonderful  sight,  aren't  it?"  he  commented. 
"What  wi'  so  many  polished  rods  an'  shafts  all 
whity-gray,  an'  all  them  many  beams  an'  bars 
so  beautiful  green  an'  red-painted!" 

Lavis,  still  interested  in  the  wonderful  machin- 
ery, felt  the  deck  lifted  the  least  bit  under  him. 
It  was  as  if  the  ship  had  risen  to  a  rolling  head 
sea.  He  laid  hold  of  a  handy  stanchion  to  steady 
himself,  but  he  saw  Andie,  unsupported,  go  sli- 
ding easily,  gently,  irresistibly  to  the  bulkhead  be- 
hind them.  Lavis  saw  Andie  brace  his  legs,  and 
then,  remindful  and  resentful,  bound  back  to  his 

313 


The  Last  Passenger 

station  and  set  a  hand  to  each  of  two  levers. 
The  iron  deck  beneath  them  was  still  rolling  eas- 
ily; from  beneath  the  deck  came  a  chafing  noise, 
a  slow,  heavy  grinding. 

Lavis  saw  that  with  hands  to  levers,  eyes  on 
indicator,  and  ears  to  gong,  the  man  in  dunga- 
rees had  become  oblivious  to  all  but  the  expected 
order  from  the  bridge.  It  came  after  a  time — 
the  warning  clang  and  the  needle  pointing  to 
ASTERN  SLOW. 

Andie  shifted  his  levers.  Rods*  and  shafts  re- 
versed. Andie,  eyes  set  on  the  bridge  dial, 
waited. 

Lavis  could  hear  LmneH's  voice  sharply  hailing 
somebody  in  the  boiler-room  passage.  Presently 
he  saw  him  running  by  the  bulkhead  door;  and 
then,  from  the  far  end  of  the  passage,  his  voice 
cracking  out  like  a  whip:  "Back,  I  say!  Back, 
you  dogs,  back  to  your  stations!  I'll  tell  you 
when  you're  to  go." 

He  came  bounding  in  and  past  Lavis  and 
Andie,  up  the  narrow  iron  ladder,  up  the  wider 
one  above  it.  Again  Lavis  heard  him:  "You 
thought  to  forelay  me,  eh — and  breed  panic 
above?  You  misbegotten  spawn,  I'd  kill  you  as 
I'd  kill  a  cockroach — and  every  last  one  of  you, 
if  you  force  me.  You  dogs — go  back!" 

Cries  and  oaths,  then  the  thud  of  a  heavy 
3H 


The  Last  Passenger 

weapon  on  bone  and  flesh,  the  falling  of  stum- 
bling bodies  on  the  iron  grating  above.  A  silence, 
and  then  Linnell's  voice  again,  now  more  con- 
trolled: "You  there,  Wallace?  Well,  stay  there. 
An'  let  not  a  single  one  of  'em  pass  without  my 
orders.  Shoot  'em  down  if  you  have  to,  but  keep 
'em  below." 

The  ship  was  still  backing.  Wh-r-r-i-ng!  went 
the  gong.  Stop !  commanded  the  indicator.  An- 
die  shifted  the  levers.  The  tremendous  machin- 
ery hung  motionless. 

All  was  quiet.  Not  a  quiver  from  out  of  the 
great  compartment.  Through  the  grating  over  his 
head  Lavis  saw  the  figure  of  the  chief  hurriedly 
descending.  He  saw  him  turn,  pause  a  moment 
at  the  head  of  the  narrow  ladder,  and  then  come 
sliding  down. 

"  Doing  our  best,  some  of  'em  will  get  up  above," 
he  said  quietly.  "But  we've  enough  left  for  a 
watch."  He  stepped  to  Andie's  side,  all  the 
while  with  his  eyes  roaming  over  the  machinery. 
"She  answered  her  bells  promptly,  Andie?" 

"To  the  stroke,  sir." 

"Good!  Stay  by  her.  Pass  the  word  to  me 
if  aught  goes  wrong." 

He  was  through  the  bulkhead  door  and  into 
the  passageway  before  he  had  completed  the 
order. 

315 


The  Last  Passenger 

Lavis  saw  Andie  pout  his  lower  lip,  and  with  a 
"T-t-t — "  shift  his  gaze  to  the  pit.  "The  blind 
bats!"  burst  from  him,  and  he  spat  into  the  pit. 
"See  there,  sir!"  he  called  out  to  Lavis. 

Lavis  nodded.  He  had  already  noticed  it. 
There  was  a  foot  or  so  of  water  in  the  pit. 

"  How  the  devil  came  it  there  ? "  Andie  stooped 
and  scooped  a  handful  of  it,  tasted  it,  and 
held  it  up  for  Lavis  to  view.  "Salt!  And  cold. 
T-t-t — "  Andie  let  his  breath  whistle  softly 
through  his  parted  teeth. 

The  water  was  rising.  By  and  by  it  was  over 
the  top  of  the  pit  and  crawling  across  the  shiny 
deck.  Andie  looked  about  for  relief. 

"I'll  tell  him,"  volunteered  Lavis. 

"Thank  you,  sir.  An'  you  might  say,  sir, 
there  must  be  somethin'  wrong  wi'  the  bulkhead 
doors.  They  aren't  closed  yet." 

Lavis  met  Linnell  returning  in  the  passageway. 
"Buttons  in  place  of  eyes  in  their  heads  aloft!" 
he  was  muttering.  "An'  for  all  o'  forty  mechanics 
brought  specially  to  set  things  right,  they  can't 
close  the  doors  below." 

Together  they  waded  in  to  where  Andie  was 
now  to  his  knees  in  water.  "Let  be  your  levers, 
Andie,  an'  take  a  spell  o'  rest  for  yourself,"  com- 
manded Linnell. 

Andie  slowly  relaxed  his  fingers,  pulled  a  bunch 
316 


The  Last  Passenger 

of  waste  from  his  hip  pocket,  and  wiped  his 
hands. 

"She's  hard  hit,"  said  Linnell  to  Lavis,  "though 
there's  few  know  it  yet.  And  won't  in  a  hurry." 

"Then  I'd  better  be  going  above?" 

"That's  right,  do.  Will  you  be  back  this  way 
again?" 

Lavis  let  his  hand  rest  lightly  on  Andie's  head. 
"I'm  not  sure."  He  extended  his  hand  to  Lin- 
nell. "If  I  don't  see  you  again,  good-by." 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Lavis."  The  engineer  stepped 
closer  and  whispered :  "If  any  honest  chance  offers 
to  leave  the  ship,  leave  her." 

Lavis  found  his  way  through  the  crew's  quar- 
ters to  the  lowest  sleeping  deck  of  steerage.  Here 
a  few  old  people  and  some  children,  too  discour- 
aged, too  indifferent,  or  too  helpless,  were  cling- 
ing to  their  bunks.  On  the  next  deck  he  found  a 
gathering  in  the  open  space  surrounding  a  freight 
hatch.  One  whom  he  knew  for  a  Polish  woman, 
with  her  baby  at  her  breast,  was  on  the  edge  of 
the  crowd,  and,  like  most  of  the  others,  glancing 
up  to  see  what  was  doing  on  the  higher  decks. 
The  Polish  woman  was  too  concerned  with  her 
baby  to  see  exactly  what  they  were  doing  on  that 
high  deck  where  all  the  boats  were,  but  another 
woman  was  telling  her  how  it  was. 

317 


The  Last  Passenger 

Lavis  stepped  closer  and  listened.  She  was 
telling,  the  tall  one,  how  there  were  many  men 
running  about  excitedly — ship's  men  with  only 
shirts  above  their  trousers  some,  and  others  with 
coats  buttoned  up.  And  they  were  pulling  and 
hauling  and  knocking  away  blocks.  Such  a  clear 
night  one  could  see  them — see  their  forms — and 
hear,  too,  their  blows  and  shouts.  The  woman 
with  the  baby  nodded.  Without  looking  up  she 
could  hear  the  blows.  And  now  the  electric  light 
had  come,  resumed  the  tall  one;  she  could  see 
that  many  women  had  gathered  there,  and  some 
were  pushing  forward  and  others  pushing  back, 
and  now  women — yes,  and  a  man — were  being 
put  into  a  boat. 

"And  now  the  boat  is  lowered,"  resumed  the 
tall  one. 

"I  can  hear  them,"  said  the  young  mother. 
"And  now  it  is  rowing  away  from  the  ship  in  the 
dark." 

"And  there  is  another,"  informed  the  tall  one 
by  and  by. 

"I  can  hear  that,  too,  rowing  away  in  the  dark. 
And  from  the  water — do  you  hear  it,  too,  baby 
• — such  a  lonesome  cry  in  the  darkness?" 

At  that  moment  Lavis  spoke  to  her  in  her  own 
language.  The  young  mother  greeted  him  warmly. 
"Ah-h,  baby,"  she  said,  "here  is  the  good  gen- 

318 


The  Last  Passenger 

tleman  who  lives  in  the  country  where  your  father 
is  waiting."  She  turned  from  the  baby  to  ply 
Lavis  with  rapid  questions  in  Polish. 

What  did  that  mean — the  boats  leaving  the 
great  ship?  Surely  it  must  be  true  what  the 
men  had  said,  the  ship's  men — that  there  was 
no  danger?  Surely  it  must  be  true  that  such  a 
monster  of  a  ship,  it  could  not  sink?  Surely  it 
could  not!  And  yet  why  were  all  the  rich  ladies 
being  sent  away  and  the  gates  to  the  upper  decks 
closed,  so  that  the  poor  people  in  the  steerage 
could  not  get  out  ?  Was  it  really  true  there  was 
no  danger?  Surely  those  officers  would  not  de- 
ceive poor,  friendless  people!  And  yet  here  the 
oily  men,  the  greasy  ones  who  worked  deep  down 
in  the  ship,  rushing  every  moment  from  below ! 
And  saying  nothing  but  low-spoken  words  to  each 
other,  and  into  their  rooms  and  out  again  in  no 
time,  but  with  more  and  heavier  clothes  upon 
them !  Did  men  dress  more  warmly  to  work  where 
the  engines  and  hot  fires  were? 

"Wait.  I  will  return,"  said  Lavis  to  her,  and 
stepped  over  to  where  two  stewards  were  on 
guard  over  a  gate.  One,  observing  him,  turned 
to  the  other  and  remarked,  with  vast  negligence: 
"A  silly  lot,  steerage,  ain't  they?  Always  airin' 
a  growl  about  something  or  other,  as  if  ship's 
rulin's  was  a-goin'  to  be  changed  for  the  likes  o' 
them!" 

319 


The  Last  Passenger 

"I  would  like  to  get  to  the  upper  deck,"  inter- 
rupted Lavis. 

"You  would  like  to  get  to  the  upper  deck, 
would  you?  And  who,  may  I  ask,  do  you  take 
yourself  for,  a-trying  to  speak  like  a  toff? "  The 
man  turned  his  back  to  Lavis.  "Swine!"  he  re- 
peated to  his  mate. 

Lavis  glanced  down  at  himself.  He  had  over- 
looked the  effect  of  the  old  linen  duster  and  the 
old  cap. 

"When  he  gets  to  'arbor,  of  course  there  will 
be  tugboat  visitors  and  customs  officers  arskin' 
for  'im,  won't  they?" 

The  other  cast  half  an  eye  on  Lavis.  "When 
the  clarss  will  look  down  on  the  tops  o'  their 
heads  and  remark:  'What  a  mob  of  'em  there! 
How  many  of  'em  did  you  cart  along  this  time, 
Captain?'  I  fancy  he'll  have  only  to  cock  his 
ear  up  to  hear  'em." 

"  Bloody  foreigners,  most  of  'em." 

Lavis  returned  to  the  Polish  mother.  "Come," 
he  said.  "There  is  another  way  out  of  here." 

"Please,  sir,  the  big,  jolly  Irisher — what  is  she 
saying?" 

Lavis  listened  to  the  big,  jolly  Irish  girl,  who, 
however,  was  not  now  so  jolly.  Lavis  had  seen 
a  thousand  like  her  gathering  kelp  on  the  west 
Irish  coast — tall,  deep-bosomed,  barefooted  girls 
with  black  hair  to  the  waist,  and  glorious  dark 

320 


The  Last  Passenger 

eyes.  She  was  standing  on  the  covered  hatch, 
and  pointing  at  the  moment  to  one  of  the  ship's 
men  who  had  passed. 

"Wet  to  his  knees.  Where  is  it  he  should  be 
getting  wet  to  his  knees?  And  another  one. 
And  where  is  it  they  are  going?  And  is  it  we 
that  has  to  stay  here  till  that  kind" — she  pointed 
to  the  two  stewards  on  guard  at  the  steerage 
gate — "are  pleased  to  let  us  out?  Haven't  we  as 
much  right  to  our  lives  as  them  that  lives  higher 
up  ?  Five  hundred  of  us  here,  women  and  child- 
ther,  and  which  of  them  above  cares  whether  we 
live  or  die?" 

She  pointed  to  a  woman  with  her  brood  cling- 
ing to  her  hands  and  skirts.  "Look  at  that  poor 
woman  with  her  five  childther.  And  that  poor 
little  thing" — she  indicated  the  Polish  woman — 
"that  has  a  husband  waiting  for  herself  and  her 
baby  in  New  York.  And  that  other  one,  and 
that  one,  and  that  one.  God  in  heaven,  mothers 
with  their  children  to  their  breasts,  and  not  to 
be  given  a  chance  to  live  at  all!  If  'tis  a  mother 
I  was,  and  a  child  to  my  breast,  it's  not  images 
of  men  in  uniforms  would  hinder  me  from  saving 
my  baby  this  night!  And  myself  with  my  baby, 
if  my  baby  was  in  need  of  me,  an'  I  could." 

The  two  ship's  men  on  guard  were  gazing,  not 
at  the  steerage,  but  up  at  the  higher  decks, 

321 


The  Last  Passenger 

when  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  steerage  women 
swept  across  the  deck.  "Grand  work  for  strong 
men,"  the  Irish  girl  cried,  "preventin'  poor  women 
and  childther  from  looking  out  for  themselves. 
It's  not  even  shadows  of  men  ye  are!"  and  with 
that  bowled  the  near  one  over;  and  her  compan- 
ions, sweeping  up  behind  her,  bowled  the  other 
one  over.  The  two  stewards  had  a  look  up  and 
a  look  down,  and  then,  with  an  outraged  look  at 
each  other,  they  flew  after  the  disappearing  steer- 
age women. 

"Come,  now."  Lavis  took  the  Polish  mother's 
hand. 

"Sh-h!"  she  warned.     "He  is  sleeping." 

Lavis,  nodding  that  he  saw,  helped  her  carefully 
to  her  feet,  and  led  her  through  the  now  unguarded 
gate,  and  by  way  of  several  ladders,  to  that  high 
deck  where  the  boats  were. 

A  boat  was  all  but  ready  for  lowering.  The 
last  woman  had  been  crowded  into  it.  The  Polish 
woman  removed  her  shawl  and  wrapped  it  around 
her  baby.  "Baby!"  Lavis  could  hear  her  saying 
over  and  over  again  in  Polish.  "Oh,  my  baby! 
my  baby  boy!"  but  softly,  so  as  not  to  waken 
him.  She  stepped  into  the  circle  of  light  which  sur- 
rounded the  boat  and  the  ship's  people.  "Sa-ave 
beb-by,"  she  said  in  English,  and  held  shawl  and 
baby  up  at  the  end  of  her  outstretched  arms. 

A  rough  hand  gripped  her  by  the  shoulder. 
322 


The  Last  Passenger 

"Stand  back!  Stand  back,  you!  You've  no  right 
here!  Saloon  goes  first,  don't  y'  understand?" 

She  stepped  back  in  discouragement. 

The  men,  busy  at  the  falls,  had  swung  the  boat 
clear  and  were  about  to  lower  away.  "Now!" 
said  Lavis  sharply  in  her  ear,  and  pointed  to  the 
boat. 

"Ah-h,"  she  murmured,  and  darted  under  the 
arms  of  the  ship's  men  and  thrust  her  baby  into 
the  bosom  of  the  nearest  woman  in  the  life- 
boat. "Save  beb-by!"  she  breathed,  and  darted 
back  into  the  crowd. 

"  I  meant  yourself  also,"  said  Lavis  reproach- 
fully. 

"No,  no,  no — they  would  take  baby,  but  me — 
no."  Her  eyes  followed  the  lowered  boat. 

Ill 

When  Cadogan  went  forward  he  wished  to  see 
something  other  than  the  loom  of  the  low-lying, 
misty,  white  berg  against  the  sky.  He  peered 
down  over  the  bow.  He  bent  low  his  ear  to 
catch  the  purr  of  eddying  waters. 

He  turned  sharply  on  his  heel,  and  went  below 
— deep  below. 

When  he  reappeared  he  went  straight  to  his 
stateroom.  Here,  in  the  cabin  sleeping  quarters 

323 


The  Last  Passenger 

below  the  promenade  deck,  nothing  disturbing 
had  happened.  When  such  passengers  as  were 
about  to  turn  in  became  aware  of  that  slow  lurch 
and  easy  stoppage,  they  had  stepped  out  into  the 
passageways,  and  asked  each  other  what  was  the 
matter;  which  question  was  answered  almost 
immediately  by  ship's  people  who  came  hurrying 
among  them  with  reassuring  words.  "It's  noth- 
ing, ladies  and  gentlemen.  If  you  will  go  back 
to  your  rooms,  ladies  and  gentlemen — it's  noth- 
ing." And  they  had  gone  back  to  their  rooms. 
Cadogan  turned  on  the  light  in  his  room,  and 
hauled  out  his  suit-case.  He  found  a  pad  of 
paper,  found  also  a  fountain  pen,  shook  the  pen 
to  make  sure  there  was  ink  in  it,  let  down  the 
covering  of  the  wash-basin  for  a  desk,  laid  thereon 
a  small  photograph  of  a  beautiful  face  and  head 
en  profile,  and  began  to  write.  He  set  down 
"Dear,"  and  paused.  He  smiled  faintly,  wrote 
"Helen"  after  it,  and  went  unhesitatingly  on: 


This  afternoon,  over  our  tea,  as  I  concluded  one  of  my 
almost  endless  monologues,  you  may  remember  you  said, 
"You'd  better  watch  out  or  some  day  you  will  be  having 
your  last  adventure."  Well,  I  have  had  it.  Not  with  this 
ship — no,  no.  My  last  adventure  was  a  dream  of  you.  I 
was  on  the  dock,  about  to  board  a  steamer  for  South  America, 
when  I  saw  you  step  out  of  your  cab.  And  so  I  came  aboard 
here.  I  am  glad  I  came. 

You  brushed  me  in  passing,  as  I  stood  beside  the  gang- 
plank trying  not  to  stare  at  you;  but  you  did  not  know  that 


The  Last  Passenger 

— did  you? — although  for  an  instant  I  thought  you  did.     It 
was  the  conceit  of  youth,  that  thought. 

Cadogan  held  up  his  pen.  The  sound  of  hur- 
rying feet  from  the  passageway,  the  noise  of  fists 
pounding  on  doors,  of  high-pitched  voices  asking 
and  answering  questions,  broke  on  his  ears.  He 
listened,  stared  at  the  air-port  for  a  moment,  and 
resumed  his  writing: 

About  this  time  a  steward  is  pounding  on  your  door  and 
hinform'mg  you  that  you  are  to  go  on  deck  and  be  ready  to 
go  into  the  boats.  Nothing  serious,  he  is  probably  saying. 
The  poor  man  who  tells  you  so,  I  am  sure,  does  not  suspect, 
but  whoever  told  him  to  carry  that  message  knew  better. 
Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  he  does  not  suspect. 

When  the  steamer  stopped  that  time,  it  was  because  she 
struck  on  the  submerged  shelf  of  an  iceberg.  In  three  hours 
— or  less — she  will  go  down,  and  all  who  happen  to  be  on 
board  will  go  with  her.  They  should  be  able  to  stow  a  thou- 
sand women  and  children  in  the  boats,  and  these  should  be 
picked  up  soon  after  daylight,  if  the  sea  stays  smooth  and 
the  weather  clear.  To-night's  indications  were  clear  weather 
and  a  calm  sea  for  at  least  another  day,  so  that  will  be  all 
right. 

You  will  be  in  one  of  the  boats,  and — safe.  It  would  be 
like  you  not  to  want  to  go.  If  I  hear  that  you  do  not,  then 
some  one  will  see  that  you  do  go.  But  I  shall  not  be  by 
you  when  you  leave  the  ship,  for  I  do  not  want  you  to  read 
in  my  face  that  I  know  I  am  not  to  see  you  again — nor  to 
bother  you  in  any  way.  I  shall  be  looking  on  as  you  leave, 
and  what  you  said  to-night  will  not  then  matter.  As  you 
go  over  the  side  my  prayer  will  go  with  you. 

There  came  a  sharp  knock  on  the  door. 
"Come!"  he  called.    It  was  his  own  steward, 

325 


The  Last  Passenger 

who  thrust  his  head  past  the  door's  edge.  "Saloon 
passengers  are  to  go  on  deck,  Mr.  Cadogan." 

"Why?" 

"I  'ave  no  idea,  sir.  Orders,  sir.  I  was  to  hin- 
form  the  saloon  passengers  as  how  they  were  to 
go  on  deck,  and  women  and  children  into  boats." 

"All  right.    Thank  you.    And,  Hames." 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"You  hunt  up  Miss  Huttle's  maid,  and  have 
her  tell  Miss  Huttle  to  be  sure  to  wrap  up  warm. 
Be  sure  she  gets  that  right — to  wrap  up  warm. 
Two  sets  of  everything  all  round.  Got  that 
right?" 

"Two  sets — yes,  sir." 

"That's  all,  Hames." 

"'K  you,  sir." 

He  resumed  writing: 

And  so  it  has  come  to  write  the  adieu  which  I  would  dread 
to  have  to  speak.  Four  days  only  have  I  known  you,  but 
a  man  may  build  his  life  anew  in  four  days,  and  this  last 
adventure  of  mine  has  been  such  as  in  my  visionary  boyhood 
days  I  used  to  mark  out  for  myself  in  rosy  dreams. 

I  have  the  little  snapshot  you  gave  me  yesterday.  I  will 
have  it  with  me  to  the  end,  and  your  face  in  it  will  be  the 
last  thing  I  kiss  this  side  of  eternity.  And  so  good-by,  dear 
heart,  and  don't  worry  for  me.  Who  lives  by  the  sword,  et 
cetera.  It  had  to  come  to  some  such  ending,  I  suppose, 
though  rather  a  joke,  isn't  it,  to  be  lost  on  an  ocean  liner 
crossing  the  Atlantic  in  these  days? 

To-day  with  you  I  saw  the  sun  go  down  'twixt  purple  bars, 
and  what  is  the  little  matter  of  dying  to  that?  And  it  is  a 

326 


The  Last  Passenger 

consolation  to  know  you  will  not  mourn  me.     Good  night, 
dear  heart,  and  may  God  have  ever  a  tender  eye  on  you. 

He  sealed  the  envelope,  and  very  carefully  ad- 
dressed it:  "Miss  Helen  Huttle,"  placed  it  in  his 
inside  coat-pocket,  kissed  the  little  photograph, 
and  placed  that  also  in  his  inside  coat-pocket. 

He  gazed  about  to  see  what  else.  His  top-coat 
lay  where  he  had  last  thrown  it — across  the  edge 
of  the  berth.  He  shook  his  head  at  it,  and  from 
his  wardrobe  took  a  heavy  ulster,  scanned  it  ap- 
provingly and  put  it  on.  He  hauled  his  steamer 
trunk  out  from  under  his  berth,  and  from  a  corner 
of  it  dragged  a  thick  wallet.  He  ran  his  thumb 
along  the  edge  of  the  bills  within  it.  Large  bank- 
notes they  were  mostly.  He  stuck  the  wallet  into 
his  hip  pocket.  The  handle  of  a  magazine  pistol 
peeped  up  at  him.  He  took  it  up,  laid  it  flat  in  the 
palm  of  his  hand,  shook  his  head,  and  tossed  it 
back.  He  took  one  more  look  around  the  room, 
waved  his  hand  to  the  walls,  and  stepped  out  into 
the  passageway. 

A  hurrying  steward  almost  bumped  into  him. 
It  was  Hames.  "Miss  Huttle  was  told,  sir." 

"Good!  Now,  something  else.  Later  on  Miss 
Huttle  will  be  going  into  a  boat.  Before  she  goes, 
be  sure  you  give  her  this  letter.  Not  now — no. 
But  up  on  deck,  just  before  she  goes." 

"Yes,  sir." 

327 


The  Last  Passenger 

Cadogan  sought  the  upper  deck  by  way  of  the 
second-cabin  quarters.  On  the  wide  staircase  he 
overtook  an  old  couple  who,  at  sight  of  him, 
began  talking  volubly.  She  was  a  little  old  lady 
with  a  confiding  smile,  and  he  a  bent  and  round- 
backed  man  with  a  long,  forked  beard. 

"Vot  you  t'ink,  Mr.  Cadogan?  He  tell  me  I 
shell  go  in  der  boads." 

"And  why  not,  Mrs.  Weiscopf?" 

"Und  vere  shell  he  go?" 

"A  man  of  Mr.  Weiscopf' s  age — they  may  let 
him  go  with  you." 

"I  go  in  der  boads?"  The  old  man  tried  to 
straighten  up.  "I  shell  not  go  in  der  boads.  I, 
mit  childrun  und  grandchildrun,  to  go  in  der 
boads?  It  is  der  foolishness — all  der  foolishness 
— dose  boads." 

"Why,  then,  shell  I  go  in  der  boads,  Simon?" 

"For  mens  I  say  der  foolishness.  All  der 
womans  go  in  der  boads,  Meenie." 

"I  shell  not  go  in  der  boads  mitout  you,  Si- 


mon." 


"Go  in  the  boat,  and  take  him  with  you,  if 
you  can,  Mrs.  Weiscopf,"  whispered  Cadogan, 
and  hurried  on. 

He  came  onto  the  boat-deck  in  the  rear  of  the 
saloon  passengers  already  gathered  there.  The 
first  boat  was  clear.  An  officer  stood  at  the 

328 


The  Last  Passenger 

stern  of  it.  "Women  and  children!"  he  was  call- 
ing out,  and  there  was  a  rush  to  fill  it. 

"I  don't  see  many  children,"  said  a  voice. 

"Do  you  ever — in  saloon?"  retorted  another. 

Cadogan,  recognizing  the  second  voice  as 
Meade's,  and  seeing  that  he  was  also  in  the  rear 
of  the  crowd,  stepped  over  beside  him. 

The  boat  was  filled,  and  lowered  in  jumps  and 
jerks.  The  passengers  moved  to  the  next  boat. 
Half  a  dozen  ship's  men  and  an  officer  stood  by. 

"They're  taking  enough  of  the  crew  along," 
observed  Meade. 

"Not  much  gets  by  you,"  commented  Cadogan. 

"It's  my  business.  I'll  have  to  write  a  story 
about  this  later." 

"Women  and  children!"  called  the  officer. 

The  boat  was  filled,  except  for  a  space  for 
ship's  men  and  the  officer  in  charge,  who  stepped 
quickly  in.  This  boat  went  down  likewise  in 
jumps  and  jerks. 

In  the  next  boat  two  men  passengers  jumped 
in  at  the  last  moment.  The  officer  in  charge 
seemed  not  to  see  them.  The  crew  said  nothing. 

"Must  have  friends  at  court,"  muttered  Meade. 
"Though  why  anybody  should  choose  the  staying 
out  all  night,  half  frozen,  in  those  boats  I  don't 
understand,  do  you  ?  But  look — there's  the  Major 
marshalling  his  battalions.  Old  ladies  and  young, 

329 


The  Last  Passenger 

pretty  and  otherwise — instinctively  gallant,  the 
Major,"  observed  Meade. 

"We'll  remember  your  friends  in  New  York, 
Major!"  two  of  the  younger  ones  chorussed. 

"Be  sure  you  do!"  he  retorted.  "And  pay 
your  bet  with  a  box  of  candy  when  you're  back 
aboard  in  the  morning.  But  take  care  you  keep 
those  rugs  around  your  feet  in  the  meantime." 
He  waved  them  smilingly  down  the  side  of  the 
ship,  but  he  was  not  smiling  when  he  had  turned 
his  back  to  the  ship's  side,  and  made  his  way  into 
the  crowd  of  passengers. 

Cadogan  shrank  back  of  Meade.  It  was  Miss 
Huttle  who  had  stepped  into  the  light,  with  Dris- 
sler  in  attendance.  And  not  alone  Drissler.  She 
was  fully  dressed,  with  heavy  furs  in  addition. 
Her  smile  was  not  less  frequent,  and  apparently 
her  tongue  no  less  ready  than  usual,  when  she 
replied  to  the  sallies  of  her  escorts. 

The  blocks  were  knocked  away  clumsily,  the 
falls  overhauled  bunglingly  for  the  next  boat. 
Cadogan  ached  to  jump  in  and  show  them  how 
to  do  it. 

"The  worst  of  standing  here,  Meade" — Major 
Crupp  had  taken  his  position  by  the  side  of  the 
journalist — "is  that  no  matter  how  matters  are 
handled,  we  can  no  more  interfere  than  if  we 
were  children  in  steerage.  And  yet  some  of 

330 


The  Last  Passenger 

us,  Cadogan  here  especially,  could  help  out  a 
lot." 

"Why  can't  you  jump  in  there  and  help?" 
inquired  Meade. 

"Discipline.  A  man  whose  trade  calls  above 
all  things  for  discipline  must  be  the  last  of  all  to 
interfere  with  it.  There's  an  officer  there  foolishly 
displaying  a  revolver,  frightening  people  need- 
lessly. Some  foolish  woman — did  you  hear  her? 
—just  said:  'How  brave!'  Brave!  When  his 
"boat  is  loaded  he  goes  off  with  it." 

"Well,  he's  welcome,  Major.  I  wouldn't  care 
to  be  out  there  all  night.  What  do  you  say, 
Cadogan?" 

Cadogan  made  no  answer.  He  was  not  losing 
a  finger's  crook  of  Miss  Huttle's  actions;  and 
yet  he  was  listening  to  and  studying  Meade  and 
Crupp,  old  Mrs.  Weiscopf  and  her  husband,  the 
ship's  officers  and  men,  a  steerage  woman  with 
her  baby  in  a  shawl — however  she  came  to  be 
there — everybody  and  everything  within  sight 
and  hearing.  He  could  not  help  it.  If  he  were 
one  of  a  file  of  prisoners  to  be  taken  out  and 
shot,  his  last  curiosity  would  be  to  know  what 
everybody  was  saying  and  doing — the  execu- 
tioners, the  executed,  himself,  the  spectators. 

He  noted  the  parting  of  bride  and  groom,  and 
wondered  what  that  groom  would  have  given  to 

331 


The  Last  Passenger 

go  with  her  into  the  boat.  He  was  taking  note 
of  the  women  who  went  reluctantly  from  the  sides 
of  their  men-folk,  and  those  who  could  hardly  be 
held  back  until  their  turn  came.  He  studied  the 
faces  of  the  men  who  by  some  mysterious  dispen- 
sation were  allowed  to  go  into  the  boats.  Some, 
as  they  stepped  under  the  cluster  of  electric  lights, 
betrayed  to  him  that  they  knew.  Some  one  in 
authority  had  told  them,  or,  like  himself,  they 
had  found  out  for  themselves. 

It  was  then  that  he  saw  La  vis.  A  woman 
with  a  baby  in  the  shawl  had,  with  a  sublime 
gesture,  abandoned  her  baby  to  a  woman  already 
in  the  boat,  so  that  it  might  be  saved.  Lavis 
was  standing  behind  her  when  she  did  it,  and  as 
she  lost  herself  in  the  crowd,  Lavis  had  looked 
after  her  with  such  an  expression  of  pity  that 
Cadogan's  attention  was  attracted  anew  to  him. 

When  Lavis  turned  to  the  circle  of  light  again, 
his  eyes  met  Cadogan's.  "And  you,  too,  know," 
thought  Cadogan.  Lavis  came  over  to  him. 

"I  was  wishing  I  could  give  that  poor  woman 
this  big  coat  of  mine,"  began  Cadogan;  "it  might 
make  things  a  little  less  miserable  for  her." 

Lavis's  eyes  thanked  him.  "I  will  find  her  and 
give  it  to  her."  Cadogan  took  it  off*.  "I  will 
see  you  again,"  said  Lavis,  and  went  off  with 
the  coat. 

332 


The  Last  Passenger 

Cadogan  turned  in  time  to  see — and  it  thrilled 
him — old  Mrs.  Weiscopf  refusing  to  go  when  her 
turn  came.  She  pointed  to  the  old  man.  "No, 
no,"  was  the  impatient  answer  from  the  officer. 
"But  he  iss  so  old,"  she  pleaded  again.  She 
was  roughly  told  to  hurry  up  and  get  into  the 
boat  or  stay  behind.  She  marched  back  to  her 
old  husband,  and  gripped  him  tightly  by  the  arm. 
The  boat  left  without  her. 

Cadogan  saw  these  things,  and  a  hundred 
others,  without  ever  losing  sight  of  Miss  Huttle. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  ship  he  knew  that  a 
gang  of  ship's  men  were  fighting  for  the  posses- 
sion of  a  boat  for  themselves.  He  could  hear 
them — half-smothered  murmurs,  cries,  blows.  He 
thought  of  going  to  his  room,  and  getting  his 
automatic  pistol,  and  jumping  in  among  them. 
But  what  good  would  it  do?  was  his  next  thought. 
It  would  be  only  to  substitute  one  set  of  dead 
men  for  another;  and,  doing  it,  he  would  lose 
sight  of  her. 

At  last  she  walked  over  to  where  the  boat  was 
ready  to  lower.  Before  she  stepped  in  she  cast 
a  long  look  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd.  The 
thought  that  she  might  be  looking  for  him  set 
Cadogan  to  trembling.  She  was  pale.  He  drew 
farther  back  into  the  shadows.  He  saw  her  face 
peering  out  again  from  the  crowded  hats,  toques, 

333 


The  Last  Passenger 

and  hoods  of  the  close-packed  women  as  the  boat 
was  lowered. 

She  appeared  to  be  still  searching  for  some  one 
in  the  crowd  as  the  boat  disappeared  below  the 
deck  rail.  Cadogan  forced  his  way  to  the  rail  to 
watch  it.  It  was  rolled  from  side  to  side,  bumped 
against  the  ship's  side,  swung  in  and  out  as  it 
descended.  While  yet  some  distance  above  the 
water,  it  stuck.  Cadogan  could  just  make  it  out. 
The  falls  had  fouled.  With  a  jerk  the  stern 
dropped  several  feet  on  the  run,  and  the  boat 
hung  again  in  air,  now  with  bow  up  and  stern 
down.  There  were  screams  and  shouts.  Cado- 
gan was  at  the  rail,  ready  to  leap,  when  the  bow 
unexpectedly  dropped.  The  boat  was  level  again. 
It  was  in  the  water  and  floating.  She  was  safe 
away. 

Cadogan  remained  by  the  rail,  tracing  the 
course  of  the  little  boat  on  the  sea.  When  he 
could  no  longer  see  the  shadow  of  it,  nor  hear 
the  voices  from  it,  he  still  stayed,  pursuing  in 
his  imagination  her  course  and  position  out  there 
on  the  waters. 

When  he  faced  inboard,  all  the  boats  were 
away,  and  Meade  and  Crupp  were  no  longer  on 
deck.  He  guessed  they  had  gone  into  the  smo- 
king-room. 


334 


The  Last  Passenger 


IV 

Many  other  passengers  had  returned  to  the 
smoking-room  by  the  time  Cadogan  got  there. 
Meade,  Crupp,  and  Vogel  were  already  seated  at 
the  corner  table.  Cadogan  sat  down  with  them. 

From  the  farther  corner  of  the  room  came  a 
strident  voice.  "They  were  all  of  them  foolish 
to  go  at  all,  that's  what  I  say.  They  will  be  out 
there  all  night,  and  in  the  morning  we  will  be 
laughing  at  them  when  they  return  aboard.  See 
here.  Please  see  here." 

The  speaker  opened  and  held  up  an  illustrated  ad- 
vertising booklet.  No  one  in  the  room  could  fail  to 
see  it.  "Thirty-eight  water-tight  compartments. 
See,  there  it  is.  Non-sinkable.  Non-sinkable — 
that's  the  word.  See  for  yourself,  whoever  cares. 
But  there's  people  who  fancy  they  know  more 
about  ships  than  the  men  who  make  a  trade  of 
building  'em."  He  stared  around  the  room  to 
see  who  would  gainsay  him.  Nobody  seemed  to 
care  to. 

Crupp  turned  around  to  see  who  it  was.  "It's 
that  chap  was  auctioning  off  the  ship's  pool  an 
hour  or  two  ago,"  explained  Vogel.  "He  never 
stops." 

Major  Crupp's  questioning  eyes  roamed  from 
335 


The  Last  Passenger 

Cadogan  to  the  assertive  man  at  the  farther 
corner  and  back  to  Cadogan.  "What  d'you  make 
of  him,  Cadogan?" 

Cadogan  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  is  faith 
like  his  that  builds  empires.  And  stupidity  like 
his  that  loses  them." 

The  man  with  the  booklet  had  not  abated  the 
fervor  of  his  reading  announcements;  but  those 
who  were  listening  were  listening  without  com- 
ment. Thus  far  no  one  in  the  room  had  spoken 
aloud  of  danger  except  the  man  with  the  book- 
let. The  effect  of  his  loud  insistence  was  to  in- 
crease the  unvoiced  uneasiness. 

A  steward,  with  a  face  into  which  a  white 
frost  seemed  to  have  bitten,  burst  into  the  smo- 
king-room, revolved  rapidly  once  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  and  vanished  through  the  door  by 
which  he  came. 

Everybody  turned  toward  the  door  through 
which  he  disappeared,  and  then  every  head 
seemed  to  turn  toward  every  other.  The  voice 
of  the  man  with  the  booklet  was  lowered.  Pres- 
ently he  ceased  reading. 

One  man  stood  up  and  went  silently  out.  The 
door  closed  behind  him.  Another  stood  up. 
One,  two,  three  men  followed  him  to  the  door. 
Several  got  up  together.  Another  group  was  on 
its  way  when  suddenly  there  was  a  rush  for  the 

336 


The  Last  Passenger 

door.  The  man  with  the  booklet,  whiskered,  fat, 
and  red-necked,  stared  down  at  his  printed  page 
in  amaze.  He  gulped,  blinked,  heaved  himself 
up,  and  lumbered  after  the  others.  Only  the 
four  gathered  around  the  corner  table  remained 
in  the  smoking-room. 

Crupp,  with  his  thumbs  hooked  into  his  trousers 
pockets,  was  staring  down  between  his  knees.  On 
Crupp's  left  was  Vogel,  the  millionaire  of  the  rail- 
roads. He  was  a  tall,  slope-shouldered  man  of 
fifty-five,  bald  at  the  top  of  his  head.  His  fore- 
head sloped  back  from  speculative  eyes.  "Hi, 
wake  up  there,  Major!"  he  bawled,  most  unex- 
pectedly. "That  steward  who  came  running  in 
that  time,  you'd  think  he  thought  the  ship  was 
going  down.  What  d'y'  imagine  he  wanted, 
Major?" 

Crupp  raised  his  head  and  stared  abstractedly 
at  Vogel.  "Huh,"  repeated  Vogel,  "what  was  he 
after,  Major?" 

"Lord  knows" — Crupp  suddenly  smiled — "per- 
haps it  was  a  tip." 

On  the  table  was  a  siphon  of  soda  and  some 
empty  glasses.  Crupp  selected  one  that  had  not 
been  used,  and,  carefully  gauging,  poured  about 
an  inch  of  soda  into  the  glass.  "The  ship  going 
down,  Mr.  Vogel?  Heroes  then  we'd  have  to 
be" — he  glanced  at  each  in  turn  over  the  rim  of 

337 


The  Last  Passenger 

his  glass — "whether  we  liked  it  or  not,  wouldn't 
we?  What  did  you  learn  that  time  you  went 
forward,  Cadogan?" 

Cadogan  also  helped  himself  to  some  soda- 
water,  rolled  it  around  in  his  mouth,  swallowed 
it,  and  set  down  his  glass.  As  if  he  had  not 
heard  Crupp,  he  drew  out  his  cigar-case  and  of- 
fered it  to  the  soldier. 

Crupp  nodded  his  thanks,  took  a  cigar,  bit  off 
the  end,  and,  without  looking  away  from  Cado- 
gan, lit  up.  Vogel  took  one,  but  as  if  by  way  of 
courtesy  only,  for  he  indicated  no  desire  to  light 
it.  Meade,  waving  Cadogan  away,  lit  a  cigarette 
of  his  own  rolling.  "Shortening  my  life  smoking 
cigars,"  he  explained. 

The  door  opened.  It  was  Lavis.  With  a  pause 
and  a  bow,  as  if  to  ask  their  permission,  he  took 
the  corner  seat  on  the  transom.  Cadogan,  wait- 
ing until  he  saw  Lavis  seated,  tendered  him  the 
cigar-case.  Lavis  shook  his  head. 

"If  you're  afraid  it's  my  last — "  suggested 
Cadogan. 

"It's  years  since  I've  smoked." 

"That  saves  me,  for  it  is  my  last."  With  the 
word  Cadogan  threw  the  empty  cigar-case  on  the 
table. 

Meade  picked  up  the  case,  a  gun-metal  one, 
with  Cadogan's  monogram  in  thin,  flat  silver  let- 

338 


The  Last  Passenger 

ters  on  the  side.  "You  throw  that  down,  Cado- 
gan,  as  if  you  wanted  to  give  it  away." 

"Did  it  look  that  way?"  Cadogan  took  it 
from  Meade's  extended  hand.  "I've  carried  that 
a  good  many  years."  He  stood  up  as  he  finished 
speaking,  to  reach  for  some  matches  from  the 
next  table.  After  lighting  up  he  remained  stand- 
ing. 

"Clear,  settled  weather,  and  a  smooth  sea." 
He  was  gazing  reflectively  through  the  weather 
air-port  as  he  spoke. 

"Cadogan" — Meade  was  speaking — "give  us 
some  more  of  your  adventures." 

Cadogan  drew  out  his  watch,  also  of  gun-metal. 
"And  I've  carried  that  a  good  many  years,  too." 
He  spoke  as  if  to  himself.  He  looked  at  the  face. 
"No,  it's  too  late,  Mr.  Meade.  It's  too  late  to 
begin  now." 

"It's  never  too  late.  Just  think,  in  your  short 
life  you  have  lived  more  volumes  than  I  have 
written.  You  know  more,  ten  times  more,  about 
real  life  than  I  do,  and  I'm  sixty.  I  wonder" — 
he  fanned  the  smoke  from  him — "would  you  mind 
dying  after  all  you've  been  through?" 

Cadogan  was  still  standing.  He  set  his  left 
foot  on  the  seat  of  his  chair,  his  left  elbow  on  his 
knee,  and  his  chin  in  the  heel  of  his  left  hand. 
By  extending  two  long,  supple  left  fingers  he  could 

339 


The  Last  Passenger 

hold  his  cigar  while  he  blew  rings  of  smoke  to- 
ward the  air-port.  He  blew  them  now — once, 
twice,  three  times.  "I  don't  know  any  healthy 
men  who  are  eager  to  die,  do  you?"  he  said,  half 
smiling,  presently. 

"Meaning  you  don't  want  to  go  yourself?" 

"Just  that.  And  yet,  if  I  had  to  go,  any  time 
now,  I  don't  see  where  I  could  have  any  kick 
coming.  Somewhere,  sometime,  it  had  to  come. 
And  yet  I  was  wondering,  only  to-night,  queerly 
enough — "  Between  the  first  two  fingers  and 
thumb  of  his  right  hand  he  was  somersaulting 
the  gun-metal  cigar-case  against  the  table-top. 
Tap — tap — tap — one  end,  then  the  other — tap- 
tap — tap — it  went. 

While  Cadogan  paused  Meade  was  making 
mental  notes  of  him.  How  wide  and  powerful 
the  shoulders  loomed,  how  trim  the  waist,  the 
grace  of  the  long  white  fingers,  the  smooth  curves 
of  the  strong  face,  all  brown  below  the  eyes  and 
all  white  above!  "What  a  fight  you  could  put 
up!"  thought  Meade.  "And  what  a  pity  if  any- 
thing should  happen  to  you  before  you  should 
have  had  your  chance!" 

Cadogan  ceased  somersaulting  the  cigar-case. 
"Wouldn't  it  be  queer,  now,  I  was  thinking— 
here  I've  drawn  lots  with  Death  a  hundred  times 
— a  few  more  or  less — and  then  to  think  of  him 

340 


The  Last  Passenger 

coming  along  and  grabbing  a  fellow  off  the  deck 
of  an  ocean  liner!" 

"That  would  be  a  joke,"   commented  Meade. 

"Wouldn't  it?"  Cadogan  carefully  knocked 
his  cigar-ashes  onto  the  tray.  His  eyes  and 
Crupp's  met. 

With  his  eyes  now  focussed  on  the  ash-tray, 
Cadogan  continued:  "If  I  have  left  anybody 
worrying,  or  guessing,  I  can  tell  him  where  there 
is  a  collapsible  life-boat  which  will  be  safe  in  smooth 


water." 


"There  are  women  still  aboard,"  said  Crupp. 

"Eh,  what's   that?"     Meade  sat   straight  up. 

"Yes" — Cadogan's  response  was  directed  to 
Crupp — "there  are  many  women  aboard.  But 
when  that  life-boat  is  launched,  there  is  going  to 
be  a  grand  fight  to  see  who  will  get  on  it.  A 
half-dozen  armed  men  could  hold  it  for  them- 
selves, but  not  for  anybody  else — women  or  men. 
What  do  you  say,  Major?  Would  you  be  for 
that  kind  of  a  fight  in  the  event  of  her  sinking?" 

Crupp  shook  his  head  firmly.  "I'd  better 
shoot  myself — or  any  other  army  or  navy  officer 
—than  be  saved  where  a  ship-load  of  women  went 
down." 

"What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Vogel?" 

Vogel  smiled  uneasily.  "You  gentlemen  of  the 
sword  and  pen,  how  you  do  try  our  nerve  at 

341 


The  Last  Passenger 

times!  But  in  my  circle  neither  do  men  honor 
the  craven.  With  many  women  still  aboard, 
would  I  get  into  a  boat  and  leave  the  ship  ?  Why, 


no." 


"Do  you  mean,  Cadogan" — all  was  silence 
when  Meade  spoke  up — "do  you  mean  there  is  a 
possibility  that  this  ship  will  founder?" 

Cadogan  nodded — twice — slowly. 

"But  for  God's  sake,  when?" 

"See" — he  pointed  to  the  deck  at  their  feet — 
"the  slant.  Her  bow  is  settling  now." 

No  one  spoke,  and  only  Meade  moved,  and  he 
to  interlock  his  fingers  and,  pressing  his  hands 
together,  to  rest  them  on  the  edge  of  the  table, 
and  lower,  for  a  moment,  his  head. 

Only  Cadogan  seemed  to  remember  that  Lavis 
was  on  the  transom  seat.  During  all  the  time 
that  he  was  speaking  and  acting,  Cadogan  knew 
that  Lavis  had  never  ceased  to  study  him. 

Cadogan  addressed  him  directly.  "The  raft?" 
asked  Cadogan.  Lavis  shook  his  head  indiffer- 
ently. 

The  soldier  dropped  the  butt  of  his  cigar  straight 
down  between  his  knees.  Meade  laid  the  ends  of 
his  fingers  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and  stared  at 
his  nails. 

Vogel  sat  a  little  higher  in  his  chair.  "Well, 
there's  one  thing.  For  three  generations  now 

342 


The  Last  Passenger 

our  family  have  pursued  a  constructive  policy. 
My  son  is  almost  of  age.  I  hope  he  will  not  for- 
get his  responsibilities." 

Major  Crupp  stood  up.     "  Shall  we  go  outside  ? " 

Vogel  stood  up  promptly.  Meade  got  more 
slowly  to  his  feet.  "It  doesn't  seem  real,"  he 
said  to  Cadogan;  "so  quiet!  Do  men  die  so 
easily?"  Without  waiting  to  hear  the  answer  he 
walked  after  Crupp  and  Vogel. 

Lavis  had  not  moved  from  his  transom  seat. 
Cadogan  walked  half-way  to  the  door  and  returned. 
"You  set  me  thinking  to-night,  Mr.  Lavis,  but 
I  see  now  that  it  is  you  the  Eternal  Verities  should 
select  to  go  down  into  the  depths." 

"No,  no!  Never  immortality  for  me.  I  had 
my  chance.  I  threw  it  away.  I  was  dedicated 
to  a  sacred  calling,  Mr.  Cadogan.  I  had  almost 
achieved  the  heights,  when  I — fell.  I  sinned  not 
only  in  body,  but  in  spirit.  To  sin  in  body  is  to 
scorch  the  soul;  but  to  sin  in  spirit  is  to  con- 
sume the  soul.  Mine  is  but  ashes.  Yours  is  still 
a  burning  flame.  And — but  there  is  somebody 
at  the  door,  I  think,  who  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

It  was  a  man  in  a  steward's  uniform.  As 
Cadogan  reached  the  door,  the  man  retreated 
to  the  shadows  of  the  deck.  Cadogan  followed. 
It  was  Hames,  with  a  square  envelope  in  his 
hand.  "Miss  Huttle,  Mr.  Cadogan,"  he  whis- 

343 


The  Last  Passenger 

pered,  "said  I  was  to  give  you  this.  When  there 
was  nobody  about,  she  said,  sir.  I've  been  trying 
ever  since,  sir,  to  find  you  alone." 

Cadogan  stepped  to  the  light  of  a  smoking- 
room  air-port,  held  the  sheet  close  up  to  the 
glass,  and  read: 

It  was  all  a  mistake  after  dinner  to-night.  I  will  explain 
when  next  we  meet — if  ever  we  do  meet.  But  you  must  see 
that  we  do  meet.  You  must.  The  passengers  do  not  know, 
even  you  may  not  know,  but  it  is  true — the  ship  is  going  to 
sink.  I  am  frightened — dreadful  thoughts — if  you  were  only 
near! 

You  must  save  yourself.  You  can,  if  you  will.  You  can 
do  the  impossible.  You  have  done  it  before  in  play.  Do  it 
to-night  for  the  woman  who  loves  you. 

I  know  you  will  never  go  into  the  boats,  but  after  they  are 
gone,  when  you  can  no  longer  help  another,  I  ask  you  to  save 
yourself — save  yourself  not  for  yourself,  but  for  me. 

A  woman  who  loves — remember  you  said  it  yourself — hers 
is  the  call  that  no  man  has  the  choice  of  refusing.  A  woman 
who  loves  you  and  whose  love  is  all  for  you,  will  be  calling 
calling,  calling,  as  you  read  this,  from  out  on  the  dark  sea. 

Come,  come,  come,  O  Beloved,  to  me  at  the  last.  If  you 
do  not  come,  I  shall  believe  always  that  you  did  not  care. 
But  I  know  you  will  come  to  me.  HELEN. 

Cadogan  stared  at  the  sea  about  him,  at  the  sky 
above  him.  He  rubbed  his  forehead.  "Come, 
come,  oh,  come!"'  he  murmured.  He  drove  his 
clinched  fist  against  the  air-port.  "I'll  come! 
I'll  come!" 

"Mr.  Cadogan?"     It  was  the  steward. 

"What  is  it?" 

344 


The  Last  Passenger 

"There's  queer  talk  going  about  between  decks, 
sir.  There  will  be  desp'rate  work  doing  to- 
night, if  what  they  say  is  true,  sir.  I've  a  family 
in  Southampton,  sir,  and  I  always  tried  to  do  my 
duty,  sir." 

"I  never  knew  a  better  steward,  Hames.  Lis- 
ten." 

"'K  you,  sir.     Yes,  sir?" 

"On  the  boat  deck  for'ard,  port  side — get  that 
right  now." 

"Port  side  for'ard,  sir.  Yes,  sir.  Believe  me, 
sir,  I  won't  forget  such  directions  as  you  are 
pleased  to  give,  sir." 

"There's  a  collapsible  life-boat  there  under  a 
tarpaulin.  Somebody  is  saving  that  for  the  fin- 
ish— for  a  favored  few." 

"I  believe  you,  sir." 

"Stand  by  it,  and  when  they  launch  it  jump  on." 

"But  they  will  have  spanners  and  wrenches, 
and  such  weapons,  sir." 

"They  surely  will.  In  the  steamer  trunk  in 
my  room  you  will  find  a  magazine  pistol." 

"Yes,  sir.     'K  you,  sir." 

"But  you  must  hurt  nobody,  mind,  except 
those  who  try  to  hurt  you." 

"I'll  promise,  sir.  An'  I'll  remember  also  I 
'ave  a  missus  an'  three  kiddies  in  Southampton, 


sir." 


345 


The  Last  Passenger 

"And  don't  forget  you  have  them,  either." 

"No,  sir.  'K  you,  sir.  But  I  never  'andled  a 
magazine  one.  Any  complications,  sir?" 

"Not  many.  You  find  the  trigger,  curl  your 
finger  around  it,  put  the  muzzle  to  the  man's 
head  who  means  you  harm,  and,  if  he  persists, 
pull  the  trigger.  It's  very  simple." 

"Quite  so,  sir." 

"Good  luck  to  you.  And  don't  forget — you 
keep  pressing  the  trigger  as  long  as  you  want  to 
keep  shooting.  And — how  old  are  the  kiddies?" 

"Five,  and  three,  and  the  baby,  one.  A  grand 
little  chap,  the  baby,  sir." 

"Is  he  now?  Isn't  that  fine!"  Cadogan  drew 
from  his  hip-pocket  the  wallet  with  the  packet  of 
bills.  "Put  this  in  the  bank — for  the  kiddies  and 


missus." 


It's  a  hawful  kindness  to  'em,  sir." 
:A11  right.     Good  luck  to  you." 
:Good  luck  to  you,  I  s'y,  sir."     He  vanished. 


From  his  seat  on  the  transom,  Lavis  had  caught 
sight  of  the  face  of  Cadogan  as  he  read  the  sheet 
of  paper  held  up  to  the  air-port.  His  chin  came 
down  on  his  chest,  remained  there  a  moment,  and 
then  he  stood  up  and  slowly  went  out  on  deck, 

346 


The  Last  Passenger 

by  way  of  the  door  opposite  to  that  which  Cado- 
gan  had  taken. 

The  passengers  were  gathering  thickly  on  the 
top  deck.  There  was  now  no  restriction,  ship's 
people  having  ceased  their  supervision,  and  many 
steerage  passengers  were  crowding  up  to  join  first 
and  second  class  on  the  higher  decks. 

"In  the  last  death  plunge,"  mused  Lavis, 
"steerage  may  go  first,  if  so  be  it  pleases  them." 

He  made  out  a  couple  standing  hand  in  hand 
like  children.  He  knew  them,  the  couple  from 
second  cabin,  and  of  the  faith  of  the  prophets  of 
old. 

"For  why  should  I  go  in  der  boads,  Simon?" 
the  woman  was  saying.  "No,  no,  mein  husband. 
Fifty  yahres  together  we  hafe  been  now.  To- 
gether we  shell  go  now  also." 

"Surely  God  will  welcome  thee,"  murmured 
Lavis,  and  touched  their  clasped  hands  in  passing. 

He  halted.  A  young  man  was  staring  out  on 
the  wide  sea.  Lavis  remembered  the  bride  and 
groom  who  had  been  so  rapturously  gazing  out 
on  the  sea  together  before  the  collision.  This 
was  the  groom,  and  he  was  speaking  to  another 
young  man  who  was  treading  the  deck  restlessly, 
four  paces  one  way,  four  paces  back.  "They 
said  there  was  a  lantern  in  the  boat  she  was 
put  in.  I  think  I  see  it — a  small  light." 

347 


The  Last  Passenger 

"Do  you?" — the  restless  one  halted — "I  don't. 
How  long  were  you  married  ? " 

"Four  months." 

"Oh-h!  We  were  only  ten  weeks."  With 
short,  quick  steps  he  resumed  his  striding. 

Lavis  leaned  beside  the  young  man  at  the  rail. 
"I  think  I  see  the  light  you  were  looking  for — 
there."  He  pointed. 

"Yes,  yes — that's  it.  See  here!"  He  turned 
to  address  the  pacing  man.  "Why,  he's  gone!" 
He  peered  into  Lavis's  face.  "There  were  ten  of 
us,  you  see,  with  our  wives,  returning  from  our 
wedding  trips.  We  were  going  to  have  a  supper 
together  when  we  reached  New  York." 

"But  you  are  not  afraid?" 

"I  am.  And  I  wish  I  could  have  gone  in  the 
boat  too.  But  look  there!"  He  pointed  to  the 
hundreds  of  steerage  passengers  who  were  still 
crowded  together  three  decks  below.  "What 
chance  did  they  give  those  women  to-night? 
what  chance  do  they  ever  get?  And  my  old 
mother  came  over  steerage.  And  she  is  still  alive. 
And  she  would  stand  me  up  before  her  and  she'd 
say — I  know  how  she  would  say  it:  'Dannie,  boy, 
do  you  tell  me  you  came  away  from  a  sinking 
ship,  and  women  and  children  behind  you?'! 

"But  you  are  not  sorry?" 

"God,  man,  no!  But  only  the  night  before  last 
348 


The  Last  Passenger 

my  wife  all  at  once  came  close  to  me  and  said: 
*  Dannie,  we're  going  to  have  a  little  baby.'  And 
nothing  more  for  a  long  time,  me  holding  her.  And 
then  she  whispers:  'And  I  hope  he'll  be  a  boy, 
and  grow  up  to  be  a  man  like  you,  Dannie,'  she 
said. 

"And  God  help  me!  Already  I  had  him  grown 
up  and  was  taking  him  out  to  see  the  Giants  play." 

"God  help  us  all!"  said  Lavis;  and  gripped  the 
other's  hand  swiftly,  and  passed  on  to  the  lowest 
open  deck,  where,  by  way  of  the  long  gangway, 
he  might  reach  the  after  end  of  the  ship.  Already 
the  deck  was  taking  on  a  more  noticeable  forward 
slant.  He  saw  a  man  lashing  together  some  chairs. 
He  paused  long  enough  to  see  that  it  was  Cadogan, 
but,  without  discovering  himself,  he  passed  on  to 
where  an  isolated  man  in  dungarees  leaned  with 
folded  arms  across  the  rail. 

It  was  Andie,  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  arms, 
and  his  face  turned  toward  the  placid  sea.  Once 
he  lifted  his  head  to  gaze  up  at  the  sky. 

Lavis  touched  him  on  the  arm.  "How  did 
you  leave  Mr.  Linnell,  Andie?" 

Andie  unfolded  his  arms  and  faced  around. 
"Eh?  Oh!  How  do  you  do,  sir?  He  comes  to 
me,  Mr.  Lavis — an'  'twas  somethin'  beyond  the 
fear  o*  death  was  in  his  eyes — an'  he  says:  'Andie, 
your  work's  done.  'Twas  her  death-blow  they 

349 


The  Last  Passenger 

give  her,  an'  she'll  not  live  much  longer  now. 
Go  above  you  now,  Andie,'  he  says,  '  and  I'll  stay 
here/  'If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  stay  with  you,  sir,' 
I  says.  'Don't  be  foolish,  Andie,'  he  says. 
'There's  small  reputation  goes  with  eight  pounds 
in  the  month.  There's  none  will  be  lookin'  in 
the  papers  to  see  did  you  desert  your  post,  but 
there's  many  will  be  sayin'  what  a  grand  fool  you 
was  you  didn't  go  when  you  could.' 

"I  know  you  mean  that,  sir,  for  the  wharf-rats 
that  ships  an'  shirks  for  one  voyage,  and  stays 
drunk  ashore  for  three  more,'  I  says.  'I've  no 
call  to  leave  this  ship  while  one  passenger  is  aboard 
of  her.  An'  more,  Mister  Linnell,  many  an' 
many's  the  watch  I've  stood  under  you,  an',  'less 
you  forbids  it,  I'll  stand  this  last  watch  wi'  you. 
Only,  if  you  won't  forbid  me,  sir,  I'll  go  up  on 
deck  at  the  last,  an'  have  a  look  at  God's  own 
sky  before  she  goes.": 

"And  what  did  he  say  to  that,  Andie?" 
"He  said  naught  to  that,  sir,  excep'  to  shake 
hands  wi'  me.  I  was  that  embarrassed  wi'  the 
grup  o'  the  hand  he  gave,  I  takes  out  my  pipe  an' 
baccy  from  the  locker  where  the  sea  wasn't  yet 
reached  to,  an'  I  cuts  myself  a  pipeful  an'  lights 
up.  An'  he  says,  smilin'-like:  'Andie,  is  it  the 
same  old  Buccaneer  brand  you're  smokin'?'  An' 
I  says:  'The  same,  sir.'  'Well,'  says  he,  'I've 

350 


The  Last  Passenger 

always  maintained  it  was  the  most  outrageous- 
est-smellin'  baccy  ever  was  brought  into  an  en- 
gine-room. An'  I  won't  change  my  opinion  now, 
but  if  you  will  spare  me  a  pipeful  I'll  risk  my 
health  to  ha'  a  smoke  wi'  you  now,  Andie.' 

"An'  while  we  was  smokin',  sir,  man  to  man 
like  he  says:  ' Andie,  did  ever  you  get  it  into  your 
head  you'd  like  to  be  marryin'  ? '  And  I  answers, 
'I  did,  sir,'  an'  I  told  him  o'  the  Brighton  lass  I'd 
once  courted,  unobtrusive-like,  between  voyages, 
goin'  on  two  year,  and  I  would  'a'  been  most 
pleased  to  marry  her,  till  of  an  evenin'  we  was 
sittin'  out  by  the  end  o'  the  long  pier,  wi'  the 
little  waves  from  the  Channel  cooing  among  the 
pilin's  where  the  long  skelps  o'  sea-grass  was 
clingin'  to  'em  under  the  planks  at  our  feet. 
She  was  a  doctor's  wife's  maid.  An'  I  axed  her, 
an'  she  says:  'The  marster,  an'  my  missus,  too, 
says  when  ye're  gettin'  your  twelve  pound  in  the 
month,  Andie,  I'm  to  marry  you.' 

"  Wherever  will  I  be  findin'  twelve  pound  in 
the  month?'  I  says.  'Your  danged  old  doctor 
himsel'  is  collectin'  but  little  more  nor  that  of  his 
bills  in  the  month,  him  wi'  his  red  herrin'  an' 
oatmeal  porridge  for  breakfast  every  mornin'  of 
his  life!'  I  says.  She'd  told  me  herself  o'  the  red 
herrin'.  An'  I  left  her  clickin'  her  fancy  high 
heels  together  under  her  penny  chair,  an'  I'd  paid 

351 


The  Last  Passenger 

tuppence  each  for  the  two  of  us  at  the  gate  comin' 
in.  '  But  you  wasn't  ever  thinkin'  o'  gettin'  mar- 
rit  yourself,  Mr.  Linnell?'  I  says. 

"Maybe  you  noticed  a  large  photograph, 
Andie,  above  my  desk  whenever  you  come  to 
my  room?'  he  asks.  I  said  as  how  I  did.  'And 
you  had  no  suspicions?'  he  says.  'Well,  sir,'  I 
says,  'I  did  make  suspicion  it  wasn't  altogether 
by  way  of  exercisin'  o'  your  muscles  you  dusted 
the  gold  frame  of  it  so  frequent.' 

"I  was  only  waitin','  he  says,  'till  I'd  made  a 
bit  more  reputation,  and  only  to-night  it  was, 
me  makin'  my  rounds,  that  I  was  thinkin'  at  last 
I  had  made  it.'  And  he  stop  there,  an'  lets  his 
pipe  go  out  the  while  he  looks  down  at  his  beau- 
tiful engines,  an'  then  he  has  the  loan  of  an- 
other match  of  me,  an'  he  says:  'Andie,  but  it 
does  seem  hard  that  your  life  an'  mine  must  be 
smashed  through  the  misbehavior  of  others.'  An' 
I  thought  myself  it  was,  without  meanin'  to  cast 
blame,  sir,  on  others. 

"An'  we  finished  our  pipeful  together,  an'  he 
stands  up  an'  says,  'Good  luck  to  you,  Andie,  lad,' 
and  I  knew  he  was  wishful  to  be  alone.  An'  so, 
'Good  luck  to  you,  Mister  Linnell,'  I  says,  an'  we 
gave  each  other  another  long  grup  o'  the  hand. 
I  was  wantin'  to  tell  him  he  was  the  best  chief 
ever  I  worked  under,  but  he  wasn't  ever  the  kind, 

352 


The  Last  Passenger 

you  see,  sir,  to  be  praisin'  to  his  face.  An'  at 
the  top  of  the  ladder  I  looks  down,  an'  there 
he  was  wi'  his  arms  folded  across  the  shiny  brass 
railin',  an'  he  lookin'  down,  aweary-like,  at  his 
engines." 

Lavis  took  Andie's  hand.  "A  good  man,  An- 
die.  And  a  good  man  yourself,  Andie.  Good-by, 
and  God  bless  you!" 

"Thank  you,  sir.  Good-by,  sir.  And  the  same 
to  you."  Andie  turned  to  the  rail  and  with  folded 
arms  set  his  face  to  the  impassive  sea. 

Lavis  passed  on  to  where  from  a  tarpaulined 
hatch  a  Catholic  priest  was  saying  a  litany,  while 
around  him  a  body  of  kneeling  men  and  women 
were  responding.  He  had  donned  his  cassock, 
and  a  shining  silver  crucifix  was  on  his  breast, 
and  his  biretta  at  his  feet.  His  voice  was  even 
and  unhurried,  his  features  composed. 

"Lamb  of  God,  Who  takest  away  the  sins  of 
the  world 

"Spare  us,  0  Lord!"  came  the  response. 

"Lamb  of  God,  Who  takest  away  the  sins  of 
the  world— 

"Graciously  hear  us,  0  Lord!" 

"Lamb  of  God,  Who  takest  away  the  sins  of 
the  world 

"Have  mercy  on  us!" 

"Pray  for  us,  O  Holy  Mother  of  God- 
353 


The  Last  Passenger 

"  That  we  may  be  made  worthy  of  the  promises  of 
Christ!19 

The  priest  rose  from  his  knees.  "And  bear  in 
mind,  my  children,  that  no  matter  what  sin  you 
may  have  committed,  God  will  forgive  you.  No 
one  born  into  this  world  of  sin  but  has  sinned 
at  some  time,  so  do  not  despair.  Offer  up  your 
prayers,  your  heart,  to  God.  He  will  hear  you. 
He  could  save  us,  any  one  of  us,  or  every  one  of 
us  even  now,  if  he  so  willed.  If  he  does  not,  it 
is  because  it  is  better  so.  But  merely  to  be  saved 
in  the  body — what  is  that?  A  passing  moment 
here,  but  the  next  world — for  eternity.  It  is  your 
soul,  not  your  body,  which  is  to  live  in  eternity. 
Prepare  your  soul  for  that.  And  now  our  time  is 
growing  short,  compose  your  minds  and  your 
hearts,  and  all  kneel  and  say  with  me  an  act  of 
contrition:  O  my  God " 

"0  my  God — "  came  from  them  like  a  chanted 
hymn. 

"I  am  most  heartily  sorry  for  all  my  sins " 

"/  am  most  heartily  sorry  for  all  my  sins ' 

Lavis  knelt  and  prayed  also.  When  he  rose 
from  his  knees  it  was  to  go  to  the  side  of  the 
Polish  woman,  who  was  also  kneeling  at  the  edge 
of  the  crowd.  He  found  her  weeping. 

"Why  do  you  weep?  Do  you  fear  death  so 
very  much?" 

354 


The  Last  Passenger 

"I  weep  for  my  baby." 

"  But  your  baby  is  safe — out  there  in  the  boat. 
They  will  bring  him  to  his  father,  who  will  be 
there  waiting  on  the  dock  in  New  York." 

"Yes,  yes;  but  who  will  be  there  to  give  him 
the  breast  when  he  wakes?" 

"Who  will  give —  Father  in  heaven!  Come 
— come  with  me."  Lavis  helped  her  to  her  feet. 

VI 

Cadogan  looked  into  the  smoking-room.  Lavis 
was  gone.  He  hesitated,  wheeled  quickly,  re- 
turned to  the  deck,  sought  the  nearest  gangway, 
and  rapidly  descended  four  decks.  He  traversed 
one  passageway,  another,  and  entered  what  looked 
like  a  carpenter's  shop,  where,  he  knew,  was  a 
thick-topped  wooden  table  with  its  legs  held  by 
small  angle-irons  to  the  wooden  planking  over 
the  steel-deck  floor. 

Cadogan  crawled  under  the  table,  hunched  his 
shoulders,  straightened  his  legs,  and  had  the 
table  up  by  the  roots.  He  stepped  out  from 
under  it,  grasped  it  across  the  beam,  raised  it 
high,  brought  two  of  the  legs  down  against  the 
deck,  once,  twice;  reversed  the  ends  and  brought 
the  other  two  legs  down  to  the  deck,  once,  twice. 
The  legs  were  gone. 

3SS 


The  Last  Passenger 

He  set  the  table  top  on  his  head.  A  man 
stood  in  the  doorway.  Cadogan  motioned  him 
out  of  the  way.  "Where  yuh  goin'  with  that?" 
snarled  the  man.  Cadogan  set  the  end  of  his 
plank  against  the  man's  chest,  walked  straight 
ahead,  and  stepped  over  the  man's  body.  In  the 
passageway  some  one  seized  his  table  from  behind. 
Cadogan  let  go  entirely,  wheeled  sharply,  caught 
the  man  by  the  collar  and  trousers,  smashed  him 
against  the  bulkhead,  and,  as  the  other  dropped 
his  hold  of  the  table  top,  threw  him  a  dozen  feet 
down  the  passage.  The  man,  rising  to  his  feet, 
ran  the  other  way.  Cadogan  picked  up  his  plank 
and  resumed  his  way. 

At  a  place  where  a  boat-falls  dropped  past  the 
ship's  rail  Cadogan  laid  down  his  burden.  This 
was  on  the  lowest  open  deck,  where  not  many 
people  would  be  coming  to  bother  him;  but,  to 
reduce  the  chance  of  loss,  he  set  his  table  top  up 
on  edge  in  the  shadow  of  the  rail,  while  he  went 
off  for  an  armful  of  steamer  chairs. 

He  needed  lashings  for  his  chairs.  A  trans- 
verse passageway  opened  on  to  the  deck  near  by. 
Staterooms  opened  off  either  side  of  the  passage. 
The  door  of  the  nearest  room  was  locked.  "  Bright 
people,"  he  muttered,  "who  didn't  intend  any- 
body should  steal  anything  while  they  were  gone!" 
He  set  one  foot  under  the  door-knob,  rested  his 

356 


The  Last  Passenger 

back  against  the  bulkhead  across  the  narrow  aisle, 
and  straightened  his  leg.  The  lock  gave  way;  the 
door  swung  open.  "When  they  return  I  hope 
you  won't  miss  the  fine  bed  sheets,"  he  mur- 
mured, and  swished  them — one,  two — from  the 
berths,  with  the  blankets  and  one  pillow.  He 
slit  the  hemmed  edges  of  the  sheets  and  tore 
them  into  strips  lengthwise.  With  these  strips 
he  lashed  his  chairs  compactly  together.  The 
chairs  in  turn  he  lashed  to  the  heavy  plank. 

Cadogan  had  taken  off  dinner  coat,  waistcoat, 
collar,  tie,  and  linen  shirt  to  work  more  freely.  Now 
he  looked  about  for  the  coat.  All  the  while  he  had 
been  working  he  was  not  unaware  that  forms  of 
men  had  flitted  by  him,  and  that  more  than  one 
had  stopped  as  if  curious  to  know  what  he  was 
at.  He  knew  that  more  than  one  of  these  were 
now  prowling  within  leaping  distance  and  that 
from  them  were  coming  muffled  words  of  com- 
ment. Also  he  was  not  unaware  that  the  ship 
was  nearing  her  end.  He  could  detect  the  first 
pitching  of  her  hull,  the  settling  of  the  deck  under 
his  feet,  even  as  he  could  hear  the  half-tones  of 
the  menacing  voices  from  out  of  the  shadows. 
He  was  aware,  too,  that  a  despairing  multitude 
were  massing  on  the  decks  above  him. 

Up  there,  he  knew,  they  were  preparing  to 
meet  the  end  in  a  hundred  different  fashions. 

357 


The  Last  Passenger 

Up  there  would  be  those  who  smiled  and  those 
who  cried,  those  who  joked  or  moaned,  who 
prayed  or  blasphemed,  those  who  were  going 
with  pity  in  their  hearts  and  consumed  with  bit- 
terness others;  forgiving  whoever  it  was  that  had 
brought  it  on,  or  wishing,  the  others,  that  they 
had  the  negligent  ones  to  coldly  and  calmly  wring 
their  necks  before  they  went  themselves. 

Cadogan,  having  found  his  coat,  laid  it  on  a 
bitt  near  by  while  he  should  launch  his  little 
raft.  He  balanced  it  on  the  rail,  inserted  a  hook 
under  one  of  his  lashings  at  each  end,  folded  his 
blankets  on  top,  and,  a  boat-falls  in  each  hand, 
paid  out  carefully,  slowly.  He  could  not  have 
lowered  a  human  body  more  tenderly.  Easily, 
gently,  he  felt  it  settle  on  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 
He  took  a  turn  of  his  falls  around  the  bitt,  and, 
always  with  one  eye  peeping  sidewise  into  the 
shadows,  reached  for  his  coat.  In  the  pocket  of 
that  coat  was  the  photograph  of  his  beloved. 

"You've  everything  fixed  nicely,  have  you, 
matie?" 

Cadogan  had  had  his  eye  out  for  him,  and  was 
expecting  some  such  salutation;  and  the  revolver 
within  two  feet  of  his  head  was  also  not  unex- 
pected. A  man  could  not  attend  to  everything 
at  once. 

"Everything  nice,  yes,"  responded  Cadogan, 
now  with  his  coat  in  his  hand. 

358 


The  Last  Passenger 

"I'm  glad  o'  that,  matie,  because,  you  see,  I'm 
needing  it." 

"Would  you  take  that  from  a  man  after  all  the 
work  he  put  in  on  it?"  He  was  kneading  the 
coat  into  a  ball  in  his  right  hand.  With  his  left 
hand  he  was  taking  in  a  hole  or  two  in  his  belt. 

"You  are  a  soft  un!  And  a  swell  toff,  too. 
You'll  'ave  to  st'y  aboard,  matie.  I'm  needing 
that  tidy  little  floatin'  thing  you've  moored  below, 
and  I'm  plannin'  to  take  it." 

"Well,  why  don't  you  take  it?" 

"No  larkin'.     I'm  fightin'  for  my  life." 

"I've  been  fighting  for  more  than  my  life,  or 
yours,  and " 

His  right  arm  had  been  hanging  loosely  down 
by  his  side.  He  snapped  his  right  wrist  against 
his  hip.  The  coat,  in  a  tight  ball,  was  jolted 
into  the  man's  face,  just  as  Cadogan's  left  arm 
shot  up  and  caught  the  man's  pistol  wrist.  His 
open  right  hand  followed  the  coat  and  gripped  the 
man's  throat.  He  had  no  mind  for  a  scuffle  which 
would  attract  attention,  nor  did  he  wish  the  man 
when  he  dropped  overboard  to  fall  too  near  his 
raft;  so,  with  his  finger  to  the  man's  windpipe,  he 
bore  him  along  the  passageway  toward  the  stern 
of  the  ship.  The  tide  was  setting  that  way.  The 
man  was  kicking  out  with  both  legs,  striking  out 
with  his  free  hand.  Cadogan  held  the  man's 
arm  over  the  rail  the  while  he  twisted  the  pistol 

359 


The  Last  Passenger 

wrist.  The  revolver  dropped  overboard.  Cado- 
gan  took  a  fresh  hold  of  him,  spun  around  with 
him,  and  let  him  fly.  He  went  where  the  revolver 
went. 

Cadogan,  arrived  back  at  his  raft,  found  a  man 
standing  by  the  falls  and  calling  down  to  some- 
body below:  "How  is  it  now?" 

There  was  no  answer.  The  man  by  the  falls 
repeated  his  question.  Only  silence  from  below. 

Cadogan  was  looking  for  his  coat,  when  the 
man  grasped  the  falls  and  swiftly  lowered  him- 
self over  the  side.  Cadogan  let  be  his  coat  and 
slid  down  the  falls  after  him.  His  feet  fetched  up 
against  the  man's  ringers.  He  pressed  with  all 
his  weight.  The  man  cursed  softly,  let  go  his 
hold,  and  fell  into  the  sea.  Cadogan  dropped 
after  him.  When  the  man  came  up  Cadogan 
gripped  him  by  the  throat  and  held  him  under 
water. 

The  dim  outline  of  another  fellow  was  standing 
erect  on  the  end  of  the  little  raft.  "Norrie,  me 
lad,"  he  was  saying  in  a  cold  voice,  "it's  a  tidy 
little  floater  with  nice  warm  blankets,  but  it  will 
never  hold  up  two."  Cadogan  could  see  a  long 
spanner,  or  bar,  held  ready  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
man  on  the  raft.  The  man  in  the  water  was  now 
twining  his  legs  about  him,  whereupon,  still  cling- 
ing to  his  man,  Cadogan  dived,  porpoise-like,  head 

360 


The  Last  Passenger 

down  into  the  sea.  When  he  felt  his  feet  under 
he  kicked  once,  twice,  three  times  powerfully. 
Deep  down  he  went. 

He  came  up  alone. 

He  clung  to  one  of  the  hooks  of  the  falls  to  get 
his  breath.  A  cap  floated  up  to  him.  Smiling 
grimly,  he  set  it  on  his  head.  The  man  on  the 
end  of  the  raft  poised  himself  above  him  and 
aimed  the  long  spanner  at  the  cap.  Cadogan  di- 
verted the  blow  with  his  free  forearm,  and  before 
the  other  could  recover  wrenched  the  spanner 
from  him  and  dropped  it  into  the  sea. 

"Oh,  ho!  that's  how  it  is,  is  it,  Norrie,  me  lad?" 
He  swung  one  foot  viciously  at  Cadogan's  hand 
where  it  was  gripped  around  the  hook.  Cadogan 
swooped  again  with  his  free  hand,  caught  the  man 
by  the  swinging  ankle,  and  hauled  him  off  the 
raft.  He  released  his  grip  of  the  man's  ankle, 
only  to  shift  it  to  his  throat.  The  man  seized 
Cadogan's  free  wrist  with  both  hands.  Cado- 
gan, hanging  to  the  hook  with  one  hand  and 
gripping  the  man's  throat  with  the  other,  con- 
tinued to  squeeze  the  man's  throat.  The  man's 
legs  kicked  convulsively.  Cadogan  continued  to 
squeeze.  When  the  legs  stopped  kicking,  Cado- 
gan forced  the  head  under  water  and  eased  up 
on  his  grip.  Bubbles  rose  up  and  burst  on  the 
surface.  Cadogan  placed  his  ear  close  to  the  wa- 

361 


The  Last  Passenger 

ter  to  hear.  When  he  could  no  longer  hear  the 
bubbles  he  loosed  his  grip. 

With  hands  to  the  falls  and  feet  against  the 
ship's  side,  Cadogan  climbed  to  the  deck  where 
he  had  left  his  coat.  He  found  it  kicked  to  one 
side  and  trampled  upon.  But  the  little  photo- 
graph was  still  there — in  the  inside  pocket. 

He  took  off  his  cap,  the  cap  of  the  drowned 
man,  while  he  kissed  the  little  photograph. 
"Coming,  coming,  oh,  coming!"  he  murmured. 

"Have  you  room  for  a  passenger?"  came  in  a 
man's  voice  from  the  dark. 

Cadogan  whirled.  "Passenger?  Passenger! 
I've  fought  and  schemed  and —  Oh!" 

It  was  Lavis,  and,  clinging  to  his  hand,  was 
somebody  in  a  man's  long  ulster. 

"It's  the  woman — you  remember  her? — who 
passed  her  baby  boy  into  the  boat  so  that  he 
would  be  saved." 

Cadogan  said  nothing. 

"A  few  minutes  ago  I  found  her.  She  was 
weeping  for  her  baby.  I  asked  her  why  she  should 
be  weeping  now  that  her  baby  was  safe,  and 
she  answered  me:  'But  who  will  be  there  to  give 
him  the  breast  when  he  wakes?" 

Cadogan  rested  his  left  hand,  with  the  fingers 
clinched  around  the  cap,  on  the  ship's  rail. 

"If  Christ  on  earth  were  to  be  with  us  once 

362 


The  Last  Passenger 

more,"  went  on  Lavis  softly,  "would  he  not  say 
again:  'Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this'? 
'Who  will  be  there  to  give  him  the  breast  when 
he  wakes?' — and  she  about  to  die.  Have  you 
room  for  her  as  a  passenger  on  your  raft?" 

"It  will  bear  only  one." 

Lavis  waited. 

Cadogan  unloosed  the  fingers  of  the  hand  on 
the  rail.  The  cap  dropped  into  the  sea. 

"She  shall  be  the  one,"  he  said  presently. 

In  the  rosy  flush  of  a  beautiful  dawn  a  lone 
woman  on  a  tiny  raft  drifted  down  to  her  crying 
baby  and  gave  him  suck. 


363 


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and  others  of  the  brave  crew  that  Connolly  loves  to 
write  about." — Chicago  Post. 

"  The  author  knows  how  to  make  them  real  and  how 
to  carry  them  through  moving  and  thrilling  scenes 
with  unconscious  heroism  and  often  with  equally 
unconscious  dry  drollery." — The  Outlook. 


BY    JAMES    B.    CONNOLLY 

WIDE  COURSES 

Illustrated.     $1.25  net.     By  mail  $1.35 

"  He  holds  our  attention  with  these  eight  new  stories 
of  his,  holds  it  in  lighter  mood  as  well  as  in  the  dra- 
matic key  which  he  touches  oftenest,  the  key  of  man  in 
his  indomitable  courage  doing  battle  with  storm  and 
wave,  with  the  hardships  of  life  that  have  hardened 
him.  These  'Wide  Courses'  are,  indeed,  interesting 
sailing  with  never  a  dull  moment." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  Few  writers  have  the  ability  to  picture  sea  life 
with  the  accuracy  and  feeling  which  Mr.  Connolly  has 
always  shown,  and  in  these  stories  he  is  at  his  best." 

— Boston  Herald. 


OUT  OF  GLOUCESTER 

With  illustrations  by  M.  J.  BURNS  and  FRANK  BRANGWYN 
,  $1.50 


"  Mr.  Connolly  has  a  touch  of  gay  humor  in  his  nar- 
ratives. He  knows  his  sea  and  his  sailors  well.  He 
understands  how  to  bring  dramatic  power  and  effect 
into  a  story."  —  Congregationalist. 

"  His  book  gives  graphic  descriptions  of  life  on 
board  of  a  fisherman,  and  has  the  genuine  salt-water 
flavor.  Mr.  Connolly  knows  just  what  he  is  writing 
about,  from  actual  experience,  as  his  book  very  plainly 
indicates,  and  as  such  it  is  a  valuable  addition  to  sea 
literature."  —  Gloucester  Times. 


BY    JAMES    B.    CONNOLLY 


THE  DEEP  SEA'S  TOLL 

With  illustrations  by  W.  J.  AYLWARD  and  H.  REUTERDAHL 
izrne, 


"  Sea  stories  of  the  kind  you  can't  help  liking. 
Stirring,  heart-moving  yarns  of  the  Gloucester  fisher- 
men who  brave  death  daily  in  pursuit  of  their  calling." 

—  Chicago  Record-  Herald. 

"No  teller  of  sea  tales  can  put  the  passion  of  the 
sea  into  his  stories  more  forcibly  than  Mr.  Connolly." 

—  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  The  very  breath  of  the  ocean  blows  in  these  thrill- 
ing stories  of  deep-sea  adventure."  —  Albany  Journal. 


THE  SEINERS 

With  frontispiece  by  M.  J.  BURNS 

I21HO, 


"  It  carries  the  sails  easily.  In  Tommy  Clancy  he 
has  created  a  veritable  Mulvaney  of  the  sea." 

—Collier's  Weekly. 

"  Full  of  vigor  and  song  and  the  breath  of  the 
sea."  —  St.  James  Gazette. 

"  A  real  tale  of  the  sea  which  makes  one  feel  the 
whiff  of  the  wind  and  taste  the  salt  of  the  flying  spray- 
such  is  Mr.  J.  B.  Connolly's  new  book,  «  The  Seiners.' 
.  .  .  Certainly  there  is  not  a  lover  of  the  sea,  man 
or  woman,  who  will  fail  to  be  delighted  with  this  breezy, 
stirring  tale."—  London  Daily  Telegraph. 


BY    JAMES    B.    CONNOLLY 

AN  OLYMPIC  VICTOR 

With  illustrations  by  A.  CASTAIGNE 
I2mo,  $1.25 

"  His  story  of  the  straining,  gruelling  struggle,  the 
heart-breaking  efforts  of  the  runners  over  those  twenty- 
four  miles  of  country  roads,  is  soul-stirring." 

— Philadelphia  Press. 

"  The  reality  of  the  atmosphere  created  makes  this 
story  compare  favorably  even  with  the  great  chariot 
race  of  <  Ben  Hur.'  "—  The  Westminster. 

11  A  fascinating  story  of  the  Olympic  games.  The 
long  grind  over  the  historic  course  is  well  portrayed 
and  the  excitement  at  the  great  finish  is  intense." 

— The  Independent. 

JEB  HUTTON 

The  Story  of  a  Georgia  Boy 

Illustrated.     $1.20  net 

"  Will  rank  beside  <  Captains  Courageous.1 " 

—New  York  Globe. 

"  A  bright,  dashing  story,  sure  to  charm  boys  who 
love  the  strenuous  life." — The  Outlook. 

" '  Jeb  Hutton '  is  a  boy's  story  from  beginning  to 
end;  clean,  wholesome,  spirited,  and  calculated  to  do 
good." — Boston  Journal. 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

PUBLISHERS NEW  YORK 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN     INITIAL    FINE    OF    25    CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


19  ^933 
201933 


LD  21-50m-l,'33 


457535 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


